"Yes, My Lord."
Since childhood, Torrent has been forced to hide behind the shackles of servitude. But having witnessed a conspiracy threatening the survival of her king and his subjects she can sit idle no longer. She must escape, or allow the empi...
Most people detest the feeling of anger; it's one of mankind's natural enemies. Ire is cultivated into a seething hatred which quickly becomes uncontrollable, a red hot flame consuming everything in its path. But to Raven hatred was a force to be utilized, a weapon so great, once summoned anything tangible could be made to bow to its will.
So when Raven found himself angry over the fact that he had no one to stalk, no place to go and nothing to do, he didn't retire to his rooms and sulk. No, he basked in his rage. He took Hornet's advice and "rested" by means of hopping from town to town in search of work.
Three evenings later, he found himself once more in the village of Westhaven at the tavern of Mister O'Shay. He ordered his "hot tea, cold milk, and the cook's best breakfast," before finding himself hoping to catch a glimpse of the new serving maid. Instead, a pert redhead with a turned up nose clattered his meal to the table.
Mister Dibrom frowned in annoyance.
"Evenin' love." She winked vivaciously. "I hopes ya tip well."
She flaunted her freckled bust and Raven resisted the urge to snarl.
"If ya be wantin' I can make it worth yer while."
Her accent annoyed him almost as much as her face.
"What be botherin' ya doll?" She ran her fingers through his hair and he grabbed her wrist.
"You," he growled.
"Ya wants me to bother ya further?"
She licked her wide, red lips and all but ignored his harsh grip.
"Leave." Raven spoke firmly and the flirtatious expression on her face melted away to be replaced by umbrage. Turning on her heel she flounced into the scullery and slammed the door behind her.
"O'Shay?" He ignored the abrupt shouting which erupted from the kitchen. "What happened to your other serving maid?"
The barkeep rubbed his bald head and shrugged. "The Master put her in the pit this mornin'."
"The pit?" Raven's brows shot upward. "I take it she never took him up on his offer?"
O'Shay chuckled. "Willful to a fault she was, but still." He sighed. "The punishment outweighs the offense by far it does." With that, he excused himself to go quiet down the wench.
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Raven often frequented the pit. It satisfied his morbid curiosity, if it could be said that he had one. Delinquents of every sort were drawn there, either as prisoners, spectators, or voluntary executioners. Spectators stood at the rim and enjoyed the show. Prisoners were chained inside the twenty-foot deep hole with their arms tied behind them and wrists hooked to one of five, ten-foot tall stakes jutting from the ground.
There the condemned hung helpless with nothing to stand on but a thick iron nail. Most slipped, and already strained shoulders were forced to endure the stress of their entire body weight. A few managed to balance on the tiny perch, but it didn't matter, pain awaited all who were forced into the pit.
