[Torture only works reliably on a certain group, Victor has discovered in his long and illustrious and blood-steeped history. Those too scared to lie well, those already inclined to betray or tell the truth out of fear. The weak in the herd. With a little pressure, a little encouragement, they sing like nightingales, answer every question you ask with fear in their eyes and desperation in their souls, as if they'll be released from the cage in the end, as if their loved ones will be spared, so long as they answer. Sometimes the answers are even the right ones, or answer questions you hadn't asked yet. They are useful, and entertaining, and provide him the screams and fear he thrives on, but ultimately hollow and cheap because they get there far too quickly.

But those with too much conscience, or too little, those for whom physical pain is nothing more than a fleeting inconvenience, who have dissociated themselves from the emotional ties the rest of the herd clings so tightly to, these individuals will never respond well to it. Some of them scream and cry and piss themselves anyway, much to Creed's continued entertainment, but they do not speak.

He thinks the Marquis may be one of the latter. Not that he won't squirm and scream like the rest, but he won't talk. Won't ever give a straight answer no matter what you do.

It's not necessarily a bad thing. There are ways of getting them to talk too.

The lazy drawl continues, stretching out across the space with the practiced ease of someone intentionally painting a disinterested picture. A cat turning its nose up at the food dish or a friendly hand because it can. To prove that everything is at its discretion.]

Maybe I do, maybe I don't. Been around for a long, long year, as the song goes. Be a disappointment if I didn't pick up a few things along the way. You tell me what kinda favor you need, we'll see if we can't work somethin' out.