“You killed her” a breath tickled threateningly against the man’s ear.
The room was dark, black and silent; had the smell of certain dread and delicious fear. The dirt of riches were sprawled and draped in the bedchamber, offerings to the wealthy lord’s monetary conquest. Rich and opulent tapestries, depicting the Celduin river, hanged majestically upon the walls. Skillfully embroidered cotton and silk blankets, gained by slavers and merchants from Rohan and abroad, slept unaware upon a luxurious feather-bed. There were masterwork chairs, crafted by artisans of extreme talent hailing from Gondor, lying scattered around like unruly children in the open chamber. The stench of sex and gold and boundless ambition tainted and festered in the shadowed corners.
Yes, Sir Gregory Abeoden was a wealthy man, and his children roamed the docs of Lake Town in forgotten neglect.
“Please, please” Gregory’s words struggled out as he strained his hands against the leather thongs. Try as he might, he was bound too securely to loosen the knot, cutting himself only deeper into an already open wound as he sat fastened to a chair. How did he get into this mess, he wondered feebly - there were guards outside, men he payed dearly for, as well as the hounds roaming the gardens. It had to be Cremashan, the fucking Harradrim, trying to test his luck by sending one of his goons. Something at least he can easily deal with.
“Please, listen here. Don’t be daft, I can give you all the gold you want, eh? Let me go and you’re a rich man. That’s what you want, mm” he said, peering up at the shadowed features of his captor.
The silver that gleamed off the man’s blade slowly made its way towards Gregory’s thin eyebrows, sliding a careful scar across his face, as the man wretched and struggled in agony. The scar mirrored, if one would be able to see, his tormentor's own disfigurement. It opening a deep gash that dragged against the his skull, peeling the skin to unleash a slow torrent of blackness to drench his cheek. The ensuing screams, drowned quickly by a thickly gloved hand, dyed into a stuttering disbelief when the lord’s breath calmed down.
The disembodied voice of the intruder cut ambiguously through the gloom, “That, my dear father, was for me…” The man took his hand cautiously away, gently letting go of his hostage’s mouth. “Make so much as a rat’s peep, and you’d lose more before your death comes…” The figure promised, flicking the point of the dagger towards the rich lord’s crotch. He moved behind the chair. “You remember a lass named, Henrietta, don’t you? Perhaps?” the whisper once again taunted near the captive’s ear. Gregory could feel the loathing distinctly radiate from behind; a deep and buried loathing, pliable and filled with promise.
“I… I don’t know what you talk about. No. I…” he could barely finish before a massive blow slammed into the side of his head, ripping out a moller from his jaw. Was she a slave he had forgotten to mention to Cremashan, Gregory desperately searched his brain. “I’ll ask you again, maggot. Do you remember a lass named Henrietta?” The blade-wielder once again threatened, dagger poised against the lord’s throat.
Gregory Abedone never remembered a lass named Henrietta, “She was a mistress, a slave, I- I, yes I remember” he lied. “What’s this about?” Gregory asked, spitting out the tooth, “I’ll give you her weight in gold, just let me go” The lord’s begging shamelessly continued. The lord didn’t even know he sent his own daughter to die in the hands of the slavers.
Yes, Sir Gregory Abedone was a wealthy man, and his children roamed the docs of Lake Town in forgotten neglect. Yes, the good lord, Sir Gregory, was a wealthy man.
Gorlen felt an unimaginable release of years of malice escape when he eventually rid his captive of his life, first making sure he payed his own weight, but in pain. The same pain he caused his daughter. It was a release of what he needed to do. Gorlen was free now. This was why he came to Lake Town again after all this time.
