Trigger warnings: Bullying. Abuse. Torture. Language. Sexual violence. You have been warned. These characters are fucking evil.

There’s a secret about children in castles. Until they are old enough to help with the chores, they are not useful. Because they are not useful, they are mostly ignored. Because they are mostly ignored, they can become practically invisible. And because they are practically invisible, to a very select few in the position to take advantage of their secret, they are quite useful indeed. Wellby Underhearth had discovered their secret quite early after becoming a spy, and he made more use of it than anyone could imagine.

The Lady Annabelle de Turas did not know their secret, so she certainly didn’t care about the toddler begging for a piece of sugarcane when she stormed into the kitchen and scratched the serving wench on the face for putting a green onion beside her bowl of soup.

Nor did she notice the toddler playing with a doll in the alcove when she pushed the cleaning lady down for being in her way, then kicked her out of spite as she stormed past.
She also never spotted the child with a stick playing at sword fighting on the veranda on her way to her room, so she never had a chance to find out who it was that struck her in the back of the knee, knocking her legs from under her, before the blow to her head knocked her unconscious.

-----

Lady Annabelle woke in blackness with a throbbing headache- which surprised her, as her half-elven blood let her see in total darkness. A voice from somewhere very close to her ear spoke softly.

“I apologize for the rough treatment. Normally I would have charmed you to get you here, but your heritage makes you rather resistant. I also apologize for the blindfold and the ring gag. Both will be removed shortly.”

Annabelle tried to strike out, to hit the speaker, but her arms wouldn’t move. Then she felt a foul tasting fluid being forced down her throat through her open mouth; she swallowed it reflexively, unable to stop. To her surprise, her headache faded almost instantly.

She felt rough hands behind her head, and the blindfold and gag were pulled away. Annabelle blinked as light flooded into her eyes. She screamed.

“Please don’t bother,” the voice said. She turned to see a tiny man in peasant’s clothes beside her, then looked further around to see the metal restraints ringing her arms, holding them spread out to each side.
“This room is very well insulated from sound, so nobody can hear you. The present Caliph had this room locked up, as he does not believe in torture. His grandfather, though, was quite enamored with it, and did leave behind all his tools. One of which is this ingenious version of a gibbet cage which you are now locked inside.” The small man walked to a curtain on the wall in front of her, and pulled it open to reveal a full length mirror. “This was a nice touch to the room, as well, to let the victim see what’s happening to them.”

Annabelle looked at herself. Her naked body was suspended in a series of loose rings, running up and down her body, connected by rods, her arms and legs spread apart. The rings were pale against her dark skin, and, despite holding her only loosely, were positioned near her joints to keep her quite effectively trapped. She stared at her captor, fury in her golden eyes. “Do you know who I am? Release me this instant! I’ll have you killed!”

“Lady Annabelle de Turas, I know exactly who you are. You are the half-elven grandchild of a Drow Priestess of Silvestri, from whom you received your beauty. You were born into a very minor noble family, where you received your ambition, yet no humility. And you married the Duke of Ithellia, Avanar de Turas, where you received your status. I’m not certain where you received your vicious nature, unless it came several generations earlier, before your grandmother’s mother fled the Underdark.
“As for releasing you- I might, but it depends a lot on how you answer my questions. And as for having me killed…“ The tiny man’s face shifted before her eyes, becoming the features of a toddler, his hair turning blonde, his body gaining baby fat. He continued, his voice high pitched and childlike to match his form- “You don’t even know who I am. And you never will, if you want to retain any hope of remaining alive.”

“You can’t kill me! The Duke will hunt you down!”

The boy laughed, his voice changing as he shifted to another form, with curly brown hair on his head and feet. Annabelle realized he was a halfling. “My dear Lady Annabelle. Don’t you know? You’re an embarrassment to the Duke, and a rather expensive one at that. He may have found you beautiful once, but your vicious streak so disgusted him- that’s why he no longer beds you- he can’t bring himself to touch you. I’m sure he would be relieved if you turned up missing.”

The halfling picked up a blade from the table beside the cage, thick, heavy, and wickedly serrated. He stepped to her side, and touched the edge to her wrist. She struggled to pull away, but the rings held her. She screamed in pain and rage as the halfling sliced deep, then pulled her hand- her right hand from her body! He dropped it into a jar on the table and corked it shut. The razor sharp pain in her wrist quickly turned to a dull throbbing, and she noticed her hand in the jar still moved, its fingernails tapping ineffectively at the glass. “What have you done?!”

“You were right,” said the halfling, with a wicked grin. “I can’t kill you…” He glanced at an hourglass on the table. “At least not until the sand runs out. You swallowed a Potion of Troll’s Blood. It’s very rare, and very expensive, and very useful. It allows you to heal most any damage, and also makes your bones and joints more supple- allowing them to be more easily detached.” He chuckled at her look of horror. “Oh, and reattached, as well… if I care to do so before the potion wears off, that is.”

He walked to the table and tapped the jar. Her severed hand tapped back. “The penalty in Tahyrst for theft is the loss of a hand. This is your punishment for stealing that servant girl’s necklace.”

Annabelle strained against the metal rings holding her in place. “That necklace was mine, she stole it from me!”

The halfling grasped her cheeks with a surprisingly strong hand, forcing her jaw open, and thrusting sharpened pliers between her lips to grasp her tongue. She felt her mouth fill with blood from the cuts to her tongue and lips. “The old penalty for lying to a noble was removal of the tongue. That necklace was her only possession. I know it was hers, because I gave it to her myself.” He removed the pliers. “Fortunately for you, I still want you to be able to talk to me.”

Annabelle spat out the blood that filled her mouth. It was black and thick, an effect of the potion. She felt the cuts heal. Her mouth itched as the flesh knit itself back together. The halfling reached up and wiped the blood off her cheek. “Surely you must have noticed her wooden hand? When she was but a child, too young to know better, she stole bread from a street vendor. I took pity on her, and had intended for her to sell the necklace, use the money to leave the city.”

The halfling stepped onto a stool and brought his face close to hers. “You know what the punishment is for a second offense. Your petty greed would have cost the girl her head.”

Annabelle spat in his face. “Why should I care about a servant girl?”

The halfling smiled, wiped the spit off his cheek, and licked it from his fingers. “Were you trying to kiss me, my lady?” He leaned back, and raked the pliers down her cheek, slicing deeply. “Why should I care about a servant, either? Or the serving wench whose face you scratched. It should heal with only light scarring. Sadly, you’ll have no scarring, thanks to that potion.”

“No, Lady Annabelle,” he continued.  “I don’t care about a servant, but I do treat them well, because they have done me no wrong, and I am more powerful than they are.” He hopped down from the stool, and picked up the serrated blade from the table, placing it above her left knee. “You and I are actually very much alike, Annabelle. We’re both bullies.” Slowly, he slid the blade downwards, slicing her leg off at the end of her thigh. She flexed and struggled against the pain, but the rings held her legs in place. He pulled the limb away as she screamed, caressing her toned calf, then tickling her bare foot, which curled as she sputtered and gasped.

“Unlike you, though- a petty bully who kicks defenseless servants,” he continued when her cries stopped, “Unlike you, I take no malicious pleasure in hurting the weak. I was one, once- a peasant- and I know how hard their lot in life is. Why should I want it to be worse?” He wrenched the ankle on her detached foot, and she cried out in pain again, hearing the loosened tendons tear.

“No, I take malicious pleasure in hurting the powerful. Especially the ones who need taught a lesson.” He took the blade, and, smiling grimly, held it to her left arm, at her shoulder.

“Please, no- it hurts!” She pleaded.

He sliced anyway, slowly and methodically, ignoring her cries. “It won’t for long. And it’s impossible for you to whip someone when you have no hands.” He pulled her arm from the rings, and set it down on the floor, letting it flop around. Annabelle concentrated, and found she could make the limb move, and worked to pull itself towards the door.

“Ah, ah. No.” The halfling took a heavy stone and smashed it onto her hand, leaving it covering the pulped appendage as her wrist and upper arm flexed helplessly while she screamed again.

“By this point, you should be realizing every injury I inflict is retribution for your actions,” the halfling said as he again picked up the serrated blade, pausing to hold it in her view for the sheer terror he knew it would evoke. “So, tell me. What is this for?” The halfling moved the blade between her legs, sliding the horribly sharp edge between her labia.

“Because I cheated on my husband?!” Annabelle screamed.

“Bitch,” the halfling said, and pulled the blade up through her flesh, slicing her clitoris in half. “I couldn’t care less about your infidelity. This is for who you’re fucking.”

The half-elf gasped in shock, “But- he pleasures me- it’s his honor to-“

The halfling pushed the serrated blade downwards again, slicing between her hips, until she felt the cold steel and burning pain reach between her buttocks to her asshole. “You foolish cunt. Your man-servant pleasures you at his fucking terror. If he doesn’t, you will whip him to within an inch of his life, but if he’s discovered, his life is forfeit.” He left the blade in place, the metal splitting the dark skin of her nethers to the start of her white pubic hair. “I should leave this until the potion wears off. No one will ever pleasure you again, and your piss and shit will fall freely to the floor, forever marking your passing with a trail of filth.” He picked up the pliers again. “Maybe I should remove your nipples, too, just to make certain.” He touched the razor-sharp blades to her right breast, and she screamed so loud and desparately that her throat felt raw.

Annabelle paused to draw her breath, and saw the halfling’s horrid smiling glare inches from her face. Beside his face, he held the hourglass. “Lady Annabelle de Turas. The sands say we have only about ten minutes left. I am going to ask you some questions. If your answers are correct, I will reattach your limbs. If you answer perfectly, I will remove the blade from between your legs, allowing your worthless cunt and asshole to heal properly. Do you understand?”

“Y-yes,” she managed to croak.

“Excellent,” he said, walking over to the jar with her hand, and pulling it out. He held the pliers to the base of her ring finger. “Tell me, my lady: who is a bully?”

“I- I am!”

“Wrong,” the halfling said, and closed the pliers, slicing the finger off as Annabelle screamed. “I am. That finger will never be reattached. Are you a bully?” He moved the pliers to her middle finger. “Answer carefully.”

“N-not anymore…” Annabelle said, shutting her eyes against the tears. She felt an intense itching in her right wrist, and looked to see the halfling holding her hand to the stump. She flexed her remaining fingers as the cut mended itself.

“That was a correct answer.”

“Please, no- please put me back together!” she pleaded.

The halfling picked up the rock, and she watched as her crushed hand repaired itself. He slid the arm through the rings, holding it an inch from the stump on her shoulder. “This is up to you. Will you show your servants the same respect you show your superiors?”

Annabelle gritted her teeth. “I will try… No, I will! I will always!”

The halfling slid the arm the last inch, and it began to knit together with her shoulder. “I believe you’re getting the hang of this. That was a perfect answer. You still have your leg, and the gap between your hips. But I only have one more question, so I’ll forgive the first correct but imperfect answer. Now, answer me perfectly.” He looked into her eyes. “Tell me about the girl you whipped to death two years ago.”

Annabelle gasped, and struggled to remember. “She- she was but a slave!”

The halfling grasped the blade lodged within her genitals and ripped it upwards, slicing through flesh all the way to her bellybutton. The motion turned the intense throbbing back to burning pain, and her screaming was only stopped by the blade plunging through her neck, and her head falling to the floor.

He picked her head up by her pale blonde hair, and stared into her golden eyes. “That, my lady Annabelle, was probably the wrongest answer you could have given.” His face shifted, to one she was familiar with. She mouthed silent syllables. “Yes. You know me as Lord Ambassador Hamis.” His face shifted again, his skin becoming white, his eyes bluish-pink, his hair straight and white-yellow straw colored. “My real name is Wellby Underhearth, and you will never leave here alive.” He regarded her face intently, and slowly shifted. She felt her head rise as he gained height, his skin turning dark like hers, his ears becoming pointy, breasts emerging from under his tightening peasant’s clothes as he took on her form.

He spoke, and it was her voice. “I recently acquired the trick to mimic taller beings, and it will certainly help me clean matters up. With your beauty, it should be easy to seduce one of the other nobles- one of higher standing. I’ll make sure your husband catches me. I’ll be forced to leave the city in shame and disgrace. And that will be the end of Lady Annabelle de Turas.” He set her head down on the table, making sure she had a clear view of her body, within the cage. “You- well, this room is under the sewers, and there’s a hatch nearby that leads straight to an otyugh’s lair. It eats shit. It eats you. Your body will be turned into the same shit as your soul, and it will shit you out, completing the circle.”

“In the meantime, dear lady, I’m curious- just how many pieces will I be able to slice you into before the potion wears off? Because I hate cleaning up blood.” The warlock picked up the serrated blade, and though she saw and felt every cut, crying and screaming soundlessly, her attention was focused on the hourglass, as, more swiftly than she thought possible, the final grains of sand swirled down.