Ernie Coles scarred, calloused hands worked as nimbly as a man fourty years his junior, the locks forged of iron cost more than most would spend on their meals for a month, but, they were strong and worth every last gleaming copper. The shutters, thick, rich varnished oak, embraced every window in the home, not outside, for what use would they be then? The bard was correct, a home should be protected and these tasks were long overdue.
Ale was always close to Coles, wherever he maybe working, and this time was not an exception. She wished the very best craftsman the locality had to offer, though, instead of ale, she calmly sipped a herbal broth, content with his whistling, his occasional conversation, as long as he continued to work.
With fears gradually subsiding, she took comfort with a quill to parchment, continuing with her thoughts..
How do I return to former glory? To restore the strength I had? I simply retire in this home, take stock of events and of belongings. My poisons are depleted, yet, with obtaining new, more potent plants, I am able to develop something a little more deadly. I fear it shall be needed, though death is not always the desired effect. The sleeping aid has been of use, valerian root is not too difficult to come by even when sleep is elusive. I admit I have found solace in my work, the only thing I can truly understand. There are failures yes, though the successes far outweigh them.
Much was learned on our journey, I have spoken of my Bard, who, is still yet to return. Perhaps he shall not, perhaps he would think it a fitting end to his worries. Though I feel there is one I should speak of, one who troubles me. Not my brother, no, for although I worry for him and how his loss might drive him deeper into his whoring and drinking, he is my brother, and he clings to life with a passion. No, I speak of Efram.
Jumping with a start and causing her quill to leave a streak of black upon the page, Coles cursed as he raised his hands in apology, hastily gathering his fallen chisel and hammer, the man knowing all too well of the change in her disposition. Her heart thumping in her chest as if it would burst forth, a crimson mass of blood to bloom over the black ink yet, with eyes shut, her breathing forcibly calmed, she regains composure and carries on with a clean page.
Efram, we found you cowering in your retreat, a gilded cage of mirrors and ancient stone ruins, a marvel to the eyes, yet you hid. I do not recall why you left Breeland, though I imagine you would claim that you were tired with your affairs there, that you need no reason, yet..madness seldom does. Yes, you are clearly mad, frighteningly so for you can appear completely normal. I witnessed your punishments that you urged me to partake in, the pleasure you garnered from the suffering and the skill in which it was applied. I saw your face reflected countless times, I watched as men fell at our feet at a scheme that almost led us to our graves. I will not forgive you for the choice I made so very long ago, culling your father. Had you and your kin not forced my hand, I believe I would never have had the unpleasant privilege of meeting your brother. You trouble me, your unpredictability, yet, I feel indebted to you, I do not enjoy such feelings when they pertain to one like you..someone, akin to the last oak shutter to be hung at the window...someone unhinged.
