Surrender to the Guards (Emancipation Sub Route)

Weevil had little recollection of what had just transpired. It felt like he had just awoken from a dream much like the one he had last night, as if his body, mind and soul had once embodied another. Despite the shock of his sudden de facto victory, a trained reaction loosened his grip of his weapon to allow it to clatter down at his feet. When an armored fist came to meet the back of his head, he offered no resistance. It was enough to stun him badly, forcing him onto his hands and knees. Moments after, his shoulders were locked down onto the dirt, heavy pressure pressing down on his neck. He could no longer move, the weakness caused by his previous injuries and the loss of the adrenaline that seeped out of his frayed and trembling body. There were shouts and growls of she devils all around him. He could not make out what they were saying through the ringing in his ears, but the constant barrage of feet, fist and pummel made him very well aware of the consequences of winning. For what might have been the longest moment, his muscles and bones suffered blow after painful blow, the pain numbing into nothingness after. He felt as if his consciousness was fading, but he did not fear it, for it was at this moment when he would have begged it all to end, if he could even move his twisted, bruised and bleeding mouth. The next time he awoke was not to the bells of Heaven but to the sting of a whip against his back. His eyes flew open to find himself still caught within the nightmare, his rear side burning from the constant, rhythmic lashing, wrists locked in chains and knelt in the center of the courtyard. The growling of the guards continued unabated, like hungry lionesses amidst the hissing crack of their instrument of punishment. Several more lashes later, his will to keep awake fell apart, slipping into a troubled, cold, agonizing darkness.

For the longest time, he had thought himself truly dead, but somehow anticipating that the torment would continue soon in Hell. For the longest time, no amount of reason nor hope could restore his now broken soul, even if his ears could pick up the sounds of ghosts all around him. He could hear the sound of chains, and echoes in the darkness of his vicinity. Thinking that he had finally departed from the world, he made no effort to attempt moving, waiting for the demons to tear him apart as the devils in his previous life had done. For the longest time, he waited, but no such fate seemed to come for him, and he assumed that it was his fate to rot away alone and empty.

A new sound barely brought himself out of his battered stupor. It was a voice that seemed like it was calling to him. He felt the presence of something closeby, looming over his numbed form. He could not lift his head, but in the hopes an angel had come to take him away from his torment, he willed whatever strength he could muster into his eyes. The more they lifted, the more he could see that the world around him had turned into a greyish stone hue. The sky was no longer visible, and no amount of dirt nor vegetation was in sight. It did not take long for him to figure that he was in the manor dungeon, a place where the worst of the slaves were thrown into for various punishments to be meeted out. To see that he was still alive did not instill any sense of hope at all, for there was little to prop up the tatters of his dignity or his will to live any more. The sound became clearer the more he opened his eyes, consciousness slowly gaining strength from the dim lighting of the room he was now in. He could now clearly hear that it was a voice, and it came from a silhouette that was standing before him.