The midsummer days of Pelargir were nightmarish. The heat, the humidity, the maritime stench hanging in the air... For most, it was nothing short of torturous. Yet, not for all. In a rich, lavishly built manor, just outside the walls of the Port City, the man was sitting on a recliner, enjoying one of the finest wines ever to be imported to the south. Chilled at just the right temperature, the taste of the sweet red wine was invigorating. He was sitting in the master bedroom, up on the third floor of the building. The room was large and spacious, and truly, no corners were cut with its decoration. The eloquently detailed tapestries alone must have cost a fortune, not to mention the masterful paintings, or the suits of armor hanging proudly from their stands. An old poetry book was resting in his lap, opened to a page where an epic poem documented the tragic events that transpired during the Third Kinslaying, so many long years ago.
He looked towards the grand oaken bed. Bariel stirred softly in her sleep, her pleasant smile offering hints of her dreams. The weather was too hot even for a nightgown, and so she slept naked, the linen covers having been discarded to the side during her nap. Tiny beads of sweat decorated her lithe, perfectly built body, as pearls on the ocean floor, and the way in which her breast moved, as she breathed lightly, was enchanting. She half-opened her eyes, and through the sleepy mist, saw the man that was admiring her from the recliner. She smiled.
"What time is it," she asked, as if the faint confusion of suddenly waking up prevented her from answering her obvious question. The man, known to her only as Crow, turned his head towards the elaborate contraption that was hanging over the fireplace. A round piece of machinery, built entirely of bronze cogs, and springs; he had not seen such a creation more than once or twice in his well-travelled life, and although he knew not how exactly it worked, he did know its purpose was to track the passage of time. The short arrow tracked the hours, and the long arrow the minutes. He looked, but before he could answer, the bells from the central courtyard started ringing, again, and again, and again, until finally they stopped, after having rung twelve times. It was midday.
She yawned, and made an attempt to sit up, yet at her surprise, her body would not obey; instead, she remained lying on the bed. She tried another time, and then once more, as if her mind, still clouded by her recent nap, could not initially process her condition. The man's words arrived to her ears, dispelling her confusion. "Paralysing toxin, my dear. It numbs your entire nervous system, to the point where it renders even your basic motor skills unusable. Worry not. Its effects pass harmlessly after a few hours."
He closed the book and stood up, placing it gently upon the recliner. He was fully dressed, complete with boots and gloves, as he was when he first arrived. She looked at him with some uncertainty. From somewhere deep inside, in ways she could not yet consciously understand, a sense of imminent danger was screaming at her. "It's... It's not funny." She found herself having difficulty to even articulate properly.
The man's smile was gone. That soft, charming, disarming smile that she had come to adore so; it was not on his face. There was nothing on his face. Not the slightest of emotions. Somehow, that unnerved her greatly. He looked at her for a while, silently, as if giving time to her feelings to settle in, and her anxiety to linger. Then, finally, he spoke.
"Frankly, Bariel, it amazes me that someone as sharp and witty as you does not realise the situation." Her bewilderment was obvious in her eyes. "Very well. I will elaborate. Three years ago, shortly after meeting your benefactor, Amarthor, he took you as his wife. Prior to that, you were working as a hired escort; it is what you had done for your entire life, and frankly, you were not being paid that much. So, suddenly, one of the biggest up-and-coming naval merchants of Pelargir decides to wed you. A great story of success and luck, if there ever was one; would you not agree?"
He retained a certain eerie tranquility that sent chills to her spine, a somewhat dramatic punctuation which scared her more than any beast or bandit. She realised her eyes started to well up. "Yet, even an uneducated commoner knows that there is no such thing as a great story, without... A betrayal." He circled the room slowly as he spoke, his steps calm, timed and confident. "Which is exactly what you did. You swore your sacred oaths of marriage, and for the next three years, you proceeded to step on them again, and again, and again... On the very bed that you shared with your husband, each night. This manor, this... ode to vanity, it all belongs to him, yet he offered you all that you could ever ask for; and more... And you repaid him with naught but repetitive unfaithfulness."
By this point, she was no longer sobbing. Rivers of tears were flowing freely down her cheeks, for reasons she could not quite explain. One thing she knew; this man was not the fiery lover she had taken to bed for the past week. He was not the irresistible, dashing charmer she had met during one of her evening walks. This man was a stranger to her, a cold, certainly dangerous stranger. And he was in her bedroom. He stopped pacing at the center of the room, his back turned to the bed. "Oh... But that was not the peak of your sins, was it?" His eyes fell upon the large painting that was hanging over the unlit fireplace. The merchant and his wife, portrayed masterfully. "No. Of course not. The peak came ten moons ago, when, out of carelessness, one of your wild lovers left you with child. For a time, you could hide it, and when that was no longer possible, you faked a visit at your mother, who had supposedly fallen ill all of a sudden. Of course, you could not risk telling Amarthor about it, you could not possibly try to make him believe that the child was his. How could you, after all? You are both of Gondor, yet your child was not. You were afraid of losing all the luxury, all the wealth... You were afraid of being kicked back on the streets."
He turned around, slowly walking towards the bedside. She was shaking. "One moon ago, your son was born. You could not risk taking him to an orphanage, no... The truth might come out. You could not risk giving him to another family, not with how rumours tend to spread around here... Instead, you put him in a shopping basket, went to the marketplace, and left him in a corner. You do know how crowded the marketplace gets, don't you? All the people, all the noise, all the dirt, and filth, and stray dogs... For hours he cried, and not a soul to listen. Now, here you are. Back in your lavish lifestyle, back in your repeated betrayal of your stupid, faithful husband; your unfortunate offspring little more than a dark speck upon your satin memories." He looked at her with an expression of utter disgust.
"I'm sorry, did I make you feel guilty? Worry not, for it will soon pass. For you see, I am merciful, unlike you. The toxin has paralysed your body, it has numbed your nerves... You will not feel pain." She stared at him with wide, horrified eyes, sobbing and crying uncontrollably. With slow, calm movements, he slid his twin daggers from their identical sheaths, and drove them decisively into her crying eyes. Blood gushed forth. She opened her mouth to scream, yet nothing but a whisper came out. He stood there by her side, motionless, watching as her blood turned the white satin sheets into a deep crimson. Then, reaching for a third blade, he sliced her throat. A clean, straight cut, severing her carotid artery. Within seconds, her breast stopped moving to the asynchronous rhythm of her faded breathing.
"May you easily find your way to the great beyond," he whispered earnestly. Returning to the recliner, he picked up the old poetry book, and turned to the next page.
The wine had lost its temperature.
[Originally written by the player of Crow (Derakoth)]
