The cell door opened once more, and Dytalcon's flesh lost its colour. His wounds were still fresh from the beating that so professionally performed the thugs of Carmine Umpeta Perticta, Judge of The Falkirkian Freestate. Their imagination in that sort of procedures was quite prolific, indeed their chief mastered all kind of sadistic techniques.
Something this time made the adventurer remember quickly the last happenings, running fast in his mind. He had reached to see the sails of the the Aurvandilian ships from the cliffs in Munawai, and echoes of huge battles came to his ears before he personally witnessed many of them. The proud armies of the Grand Duchy of Fissoa, had been attacked with no time enough to organise an effective defence of their lands, by the Aruvandilian forces in aid of their fellow Falkirkians.
Little of that was known by Dytalcon, but other adventurers he had met within the halls of the Fissoan Verminators knew how the prior offensive in Falkirk was developing. Indeed, if that attracted the western hordes the Grand Duchy was getting effective victories in Falkirkian lands.
Little of that was important for him now. He was surprised by Falkirkian soldiers and taken to the Judge Carmine Umpeta. He didn't know anything about him; truth is he had known much more from Fissoan nobles that from those of the lands where he was born and raised. One thing he could know: the Fissoan nobles he had met had treated him and his peers as the useful fighters they were. The expression of this man revealed him that he would have to expect a quite different treatment.
The trial was short, if that could be called a trial. Rude soldiers that smelt like bittered wine barked some vague explanation about their found. The judge didn't speak, and just thrown with disdain a note at Dytalcon's feet. Both of the guards were unable to read, but the adventurer could read the surprisingly coarse calligraphy: "Dytalcon, commoner. Banned. Left his homelands while still a commoner."
The judge made a quick sign with the head, and one of the guards beat Dytalcon's stomach. When he bent unable to breath, they cut his bag with all his possessions. He had managed to find a fairly high amount of different items and ingredients, and his multiple expeditions had granted him more than 180 gold coins. He would still lose much more that just gold.
He opened his eyes and put end to these thoughts. Judge Carmine's henchmen did again a great work: sharp objects, red-hot steel, blunt weapons... After the torturing session, his right hand was smashed, and he saw the bones piercing the back of his hand. The man still barked some words he couldn't understand being barely conscious. They just took him from the cell. He slowly understood where were they going.
Out of the dungeon, the guards threw him on the mud. Some soldiers were there laughing and pointing at him. He felt them spitting on him. One of them was starting to untie his pants for some strange reason when a guard barked again, this time to the soldier. The guard took his sword and made a sign to Dytalcon, to stand upright while kneeling. He knew it would be better. He did what he was told. He breathed. He felt for a second the air in his skin, and no sound around him. He felt the steel ripping the air. And he felt nothing more.
His head was skewed on a pike in the Falkirkian camp, along with many other of dead Fissoan soldiers, and his body was thrown in a morgue. That was the end of the days of the adventurer Dytalcon. He had reached honour and prestige fighting monsters, and was a skilled fighter. Whenever he was, he tried to put his sword at the service of harmless peasants against the monster threat, and he did his best to be a worthy member of the Fissoan Verminators.
I'd wish to think that some of his fellows shed a tear for him, and pray for his soul.
