TGQtPT ~ A Simple Request

[gr8artist]

As Low Coo points out the housecat, and the imprisoned feline examines the group, the creature in the cage continues his frantic attempts to dodge and escape the numerous traps lashing about around him. He fails again, barely nicked by one of the javelins flashing down from above him. As it retreats into the hole above, it brings away a crimson arc of blood, and the creature screams again. His scream echoes about the room and causes Trizbit and Danaan's hearts to quiver.
The cat's claws flash out, and then retract slowly as his tail twitches. A few drops of blood leak from around the cat's joints to fall into a pan below. The body hanging on the crucifix trembles, as if trying to raise itself. There is a mechanical tick from the object attached to it, and a fresh rivulet of blood leaks out and is carried into a small bucket. Only the elf at the desk is unmoved.

[Phillammon]

Firing position held, Trizbit steps slowly forward, towards the crucified body.

[malonkey1]

Danaan breaks off to investigate the elf, also keeping his bow raised.

[gr8artist]

The crucified body seems to be that of a half-orc, dressed in primitive war attire. The device seems to be a slotted spike pressed against his chest, connected to a levered bucket between his feet. The blood leaking from around the spike drips from a fine chain, into the bucket, which seems to be applying force to the spike. As he bleeds, the bucket gains weight, which presses the spike in further.
The half-orc is barely breathing, and obviously very near death. There's more blood in the bucket than in the whole body of someone Trizbit's size. Something in celestial is branded on the green-skin's forehead.
The elf at the desk seems uninjured at first, but you notice a small catheter in his arm. Your suspicions are confirmed as you realize the inkwells are filled with his blood. He is deceased now, though he's still strapped and fastened to his chair. His pale, withered hand is still gripping a bloodied quill, and a bloodstained journal rests open in front of him, page after page of first-person statements, written in common and in elven, with seemingly no differentiation. He, like the others, bears a brand of celestial script across his forehead.
The creature in the trapped cell has taken notice of you, and pauses for barely a moment to call out for help. His voice is ragged and raspy, and he calls a few times in sylvan before making attempts in common and draconic.
The crucified half-blood, the drawn and quartered housecat, and the entrapped little creature seem to be the only ones alive.