A lithe and imposing woman, flanked by two hooded figures in red cloaks, strides toward you!
She is covered head to toe in a complicated network of dark leather bands and red enamel chain, with wide gaps in the torso, exposing a pale, but well-toned stomach and a great deal of cleavage.
A sinister looking scar runs from the left side of her jaw to several inches into her scalp, interrupting what would otherwise be a beautiful, albeit sharp-featured face. Her jaw-length, raven hair is forced back behind her ears, and a leather patch bearing the seal of King Durian covers whatever may have become of her left eye.
"A new sell sword for His Majesty's Kingdom?" She asks, stopping a few inches in front of you while the crimson-cloaked figures ominously flank you.
You stand, and begin to answer with your name and areas of expertise, when one of the cloaks suddenly pulls a coarse cloth hood over your head while the other expertly manacles your wrists behind your back!
"We shall see," you hear the woman say deviously, as the cloaked figures lead you forward with a rough shove.
You walk stumblingly, blinded by the cloth hood, for a long time in silence (figuring nothing you say would conceivably improve your current situation). Until you are lead through some uncomfortably cold and damp section of the castle, where the odor of wood smoke and mold hangs heavily in the air. All around you echo the screams, and laughter, of countless pleading voices, sending a shiver up your spine.
Eventually, you are brought to a small, stone cell and expertly divested of your clothing and weapons before being hung by your ankles from a pair of manacles dangling from the middle of the low ceiling. Your wrists are freed momentarily only to be quickly re-manacled in hard, iron cuffs, bolted to the stone floor. The hood is yanked from your head and you see the scarred woman eyeing you coldly. You are naked and chained upside down but you meet her gaze with your own determined stare. She seems to snicker at this.
"We must know more about our hirelings than a name, of course," the woman explains, walking casually behind you, "or our ranks would be filled with all manner of Coninze spies and feckless trash."
"I am no spy." you mutter, between clenched teeth.
"No?" asks the woman, "well, then this should be relatively quick and painless."
You flinch slightly when you feel the nails of her fingers brush your ribs, and begin sliding slowly toward your armpits. You are extremely ticklish, of course, and cold sweat begins to bead on your face. You clamp your eyes shut and your entire body tenses in hopeless preparation for the inevitable torture.
Violently she attacks your armpits and ribs, sending you into waves of flinching spasms. Almost immediately, you explode in embarrassing squeals of helpless laughter! And then you feel even more hands, expertly poking and tickling at your thighs and feet, the two red cloaked figures have joined in the interrogation!
Through the delirium of tickle torture you are now and again asked a question and given mercilessly little time to breathe and answer (often you must choose between one or the other) before the tickling continues. It seems your new employers want to know everything about you ...
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