The last hours before dawn, when even the night is dead. My Hound pushes into the tent the shambling near-wreck of the filth's sport. Dark haired, broad chested; a great bull brought down by the merciless taunting of the pack.
His swollen eyes slit further, wincing in the comparative brightness of the tent as he stumbles before me, hands bound tight behind him. My Poppinjay gasps unwittingly at the sight - orc tooth and claw evident in the frenzied rips and shreds of his skin - noisome bites that will fester ... should he live.
I smile mirthlessly at the sound of the lad's disquiet. He has yet to see all the filth can do - or the shaming depths to which a man will sink to realise the one base desire that drives us all. To draw the next breath - to live. Tonight then, the lad's first lesson in a man's own abasement.
The exhaustion and the bravado of the man fight for precedence. Snatched from the horror of the living feast, the spark of hope kindles in him. It is as clear as the sun to me, and nothing new. Blood and spittle half-dried in his beard, the sweat of fear and savagery plastering his hair to his skull. I stretch out my long legs as I examine him silently, the scratched report still in my hand.
The size and muscle of him - a fighter. His age - a survivor. His hair and face - a man of the City. And so far north - a mystery.
A nod from me, and the Hound loosens the bindings. What man would attack his saviour? The sweetness of one of the City-men brought low and at my pleasure. Will he be the feast, or will he save himself? What will he offer in exchange for a life. Who or what will he offer up in betrayal? He is no fool - what survivor is.
As his sight and mind clear I see him register what sits before him. I smile - I am a dark judge, a hated enemy, the scourge of his people. His life will cost him dear, in pain now and in bitter regrets to come.He has no other coin to offer. But the will to live - it cries out in every visceral beat of the heart. So close to death now, the last of the dark night bleeds away, opening up as a grave before him. Oblivion ... or life?
