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“S-seventy f-f--four”
Durge was still missing. It seemed Orin had been telling the truth. His lover was dead. His business partner, his ally, his companion. The only person who’d ever truly understood him. The Dark Urge. His only friend. At first he hadn’t believed it to be so, Orin was mad and cruel, but now, closing in on a month of absence…his companion would have found a way to reach him, if he was still living and well. Gortash was certain of that.
The Chosen’s hand tightened around the base of the whip almost imperceptibly. His scarred, calloused knuckles whitening from the force of his own grip. He struck the boy again, the loud crack of the whip meeting his back echoing in the Banite leader’s ears. It was a sound Gortash was very familiar with. He’d heard it his entire life, both giving and receiving, and it was strangely comforting while these awful feelings of loss pulsed through him. Familiar. The young man’s back below him had not been scarred, soft and tanned before he’d started. A testimony to an easy life. Gortash had already corrected that. His back was criss-crossed now, completely covered in bloody whip-wounds. Sweat dripped from the artificer’s brow as he brought the whip down again, and again. Punishments like this were usually left to his inquisitors, but he’d of course had the boy called to his office for this purpose. He’d caught his eye, slacking off while guarding the gondians. Black Hand Tamia Holtz had immediately stepped up to punish him, but Gortash had told her to send him to Wyrm’s Crossing, that he’d personally punish the pretty thing tonight.
“ACK!”
The boy fell forward from kneeling, writhing on the ground
“S-s-seventy f-five.”
The young man managed, through harsh, full bodied shakes. The new recruit’s hand went back to gingerly touch his weeping wounds. Gortash tilted slightly so he could see the young man’s face better. Fat tears and snot dribbled down his face, his thick bottom lip quivering. He was a pretty thing. A nice distraction. Or at the very least, something to take his anger, his sorrow out on.
Listening to the boy cry was better than admitting he’d come close to tears himself these past few days, especially when his coat was off, late at night in bed alone. Lord Bane did not allow weakness. And it was better to be felled than to show it. He was toughening the boy up, and the boy was offering him some relief. In truth, they were both helping each other. Not that it really mattered what his subordinate got out of this. Gortash was still going back and forth on if he was going to let the young man live.
He circled the twitching, miserable young man. The way he rapidly wiped his face, sniffling and simpering made Gortash’s cock twitch. His tyrannical jackboots made contact with the boy’s bright red, bloodied back. He hissed in pain, spasming. He pressed down of course. The boy shrieked, but he didn’t move. Gortash loved how his little fists balled and unballed, trying to be good, trying to stay in place. What a pathetic little creature.
“Yes. You managed to count to Seventy-five. Quite the feat.”
The tyrant muttered sarcastically, circling the teary-eyed young male like a vulture circled a dying animal. He stooped slightly lower, ignoring the pain in his bad knee. He pulled the brat up by his curly dark hair, forced the young Banite to look at him.
“But you could not maintain the position I ordered you to stay in.”
He said softly, his voice dripping with mock sympathy. In some ways the man looked similar to Gortash, albeit in his younger years. He could almost understand why his former master loved to keep a younger version of himself in his own bed. The young Banite had big pretty lips, long dark lashes, an olive toned complexion and medium length black hair, so dark that it shined blue in the light. All features Gortash shared. There were distinct differences too of course. The boy’s hair curled around the nape of his thin ringable neck, soft looking. While the Banite leader’s hair stuck out in spikes where it wasn’t brushed down, a much sharper visage. Gortash’s eyes were as black as the God he served, while the boy’s he was torturing’s were a pretty forest green. The young human was not a perfect copy, and the man wasn’t that plussed about it truly.
Gortash would never be as vain or frivolous as his old master, purposely seeking something like that out. He didn’t like his own form that much. Or human’s forms in general. This had simply been a happy accident. Serendipitous. Fate.
Another difference was the boy’s hands were soft, not calloused by years of hard work and hard living, and his nose was perfectly straight. No one had ever broken it it seemed. Maybe Gortash would fix that, add another small similarity.
“Does Lord Bane tolerate mistakes? Imperfections?”
The boy’s bottom lip quivered. His eyes squeezed shut, and he tensed up, as if expecting more pain. A smart thing to do. More pain was coming. His ringed fist made contact with the brat’s face. A sickening crunch rung out as he crushed his subordinates nose. Blood gushed from him, and he yelped. He sounded like a kicked puppy, with his little whines and whimpers. So blatant and pathetic.
“N—No my Lord.”
“No. He doesn’t.”
He stared at his fist, the gold on his gauntlet glistening with blood. The artificer took a deep breath. He did not feel any better.
“It’s obvious to me you need further education in the tenets of Bane. We’ll have to start over. Kneel, hands in your lap.”
The boy let out another shuddering sob, before obediently pulling himself up, kneeling. He was trembling like a leaf. And Gortash started again.
-
The boy was barely conscious when the Chosen of Bane was through with him, so covered whip wounds it would be hard for most people to look at. Not Gortash though. He grinned at the sight of the young man’s naked body. His chest, back, stomach, ass and thighs were covered. The brat looked horrendous, and the smell of blood and festering wounds wafted up to Gortash like the loveliest perfume. If this was a normal day, this is about when he’d step off, let his beloved have their fun. Or they would both enjoy the unfortunate soul together. Being their third was never a good thing for the chosen victim. Of course…that would not happen. His beloved was gone. Another surge of anger. Despair.
“Are you purposely trying to irritate me?”
The boy was still kneeling, head lolling forward, but maintaining the position his superior ordered him to be in. Gortash took his cane from where it leaned against the table, pushing the boy’s head up to see his face, and the rest of his naked body. He had a nice little figure. A smattering of dark hair on his chest, and a pretty little happy trail that led to a mess of wiry dark hair, hiding his cock between his tanned thighs. He was still whimpering. It seemed he didn’t like pain. That was a shame, but it mattered little what he liked, he was here to service Gortash, relieve him. The artificer was glad he’d ordered him to undress, he said to whip his thighs and ass, but admiring his shivering lithe body certainly was partially why as well. The boy was young and toned and fit, obviously in his early twenties. At that time of Gortash’s own life he’d been rather emaciated, due to no fault of his own. He imagined he would’ve looked more like this, if he’d had a better upbringing. Another pulse of bitterness.
“What is your name and rank boy?”
Gortash barked. He hadn’t asked earlier, because he hadn’t cared.
“F-f-ist sir. Gasper Throaks sir.”
A stirring of a buried memory.
“Throaks? Of “Throaks for Cloaks”?”
“Y-yes s-sir. F-father’s b-b-business s-sir.”
It was a forgettable store. One of the innumerable shabby little shacks in the Lower City, hocking below-average goods crammed one after the other. Like his own father’s sorry excuse for a business. Throaks for Cloaks had been around as long as he’d been breathing, as many of those dingy storefronts had been. They stood for generations, passed from parent to child, families living above and working below. Little rats living miserable, pointless, worthless lives.
Of course that had not been Gortash’s fate, his parents chose to sell him, rather than train him to be a cobbler like his father before. In a twisted way, he was grateful. His adoptive father had taught him to be someone greater than his biological parents could even begin to fathom. Interesting, this young man had chosen to become something other than the path he’d been put on as well.
Gortash cracked a small smile.
“Why are you not a tailor’s apprentice? Or something of a similar ilk?”
He said, placing his whip on his large glossy wooden table.
The boy’s shoulder’s sagged, seemingly in relief. He rapidly wiped his face of tears, snot, saliva and blood with his tanned arm.
“I….”
He looked at Gortash, and then immediately corrected himself, lip trembling. He had had some of his top men start to spread rumors amongst his subordinates he could read minds as the chosen of Bane. He was glad that the lie seemed to be taking hold.
“M-Mother actually, h-had a v-vision. B-bane c-came t-t-to h-her. S-said I-I w-was d-destined f-f-for b-b-better t-things.”
He stuttered and stumbled through the sentence, eyes wide and naive. Even after the beating he endured, he looked at Gortash reverently. A dark eyebrow rose. Him? Destined for greater things under Bane’s banner? Gortash doubted that very much. He was the type that came earnestly, looking for guidance and adventure. Those types of people would promptly be thrown into experiments, or stuffed into a Steelwatcher. Far too soft. Too sweet. Useless.
“Who brought you aboard boy?”
He was trembling less, and his hands were back at his thighs, though they were hovering. Gasper obviously didn’t want to touch the pulsing, scabbing wounds. Gortash remembered that feeling well, and his cane promptly came down, pinning one hand to his thigh with bruising pressure. The younger man jumped, swallowed a cry. He put the other hand flush, not needing another prompting. He was, at the very least, an obedient boy.
“B-B-Black G-Gauntlet Tamia Holzt m-my L-L-Lord.”
Ah. It all was coming together. He’d seen his subordinate leaving late with another woman. A woman who lingered outside the foundry and waited for both this boy, and Tamia at different times of the day. His spies had assured him she was not a threat, and was actually a devoted follower of Lord Bane, so he’d started tuning her out. Now it all made sense. Tamia had given this boy a job because she was sleeping with his mother. Holtz would be having a very tough time with his inquisitors very soon. Merit and true devotion were the only ways to rise through Lord Bane’s ranks. One could not simply jump the line because you knew somebody. This was not some silly Upper City social club. Still, in this moment he couldn’t help but feel a little grateful to Tamia, because she had put this pathetic little milksop in front of him.
“Come.”
The boy crawled over to the man, his eyes flickering up nervously. He leaned his head against the man’s thigh, and for a moment he ordered nothing, idly carding his hands through the younger man’s hair, looking down at him. Gasper’s eyes never left his own, wide and obedient. The way his long lashes obscured his expression just the slightest bit….His grip on his hair tightened, grinding his cock into the young man’s face. The boy nuzzled back, looking up with that same reverent, fanatical expression.
It disgusted Gortash. He loathed blind fanaticism. He enjoyed a push and pull. If people allowed themselves to be used, they deserved the suffering that came with that. He sneered down at the boy, pulling his cock out and slapping it against his face. It was heavy and hard, pulsing and leaking pre-cum.
The young man swallowed thickly, and immediately got to work. He was licking his balls before working up his shaft, his little pink tongue catching on his golden piercings. He’d always preferred nonhuman anatomy, the three golden barbels up his cock mimicking tiefling’s (or perhaps devil’s, if he was more honest with himself.) cock ridges. Gasper’s eyes never left Gortash as he worked his cock, big and blown-out and desperate to please. After a few moments of the boy worshipping his prick, licking and slurping up and down reverently the older man fed his length into his waiting mouth. Gortash immediately began to roughly fuck into his face. If this was a patriar he was seducing or his lover he’d be more considerate, but this was neither. The brat was a receptacle to be used. He’d likely get rid of him after this. Gortash kept pumping roughly, enjoying watching the boy’s hands clench and unclench in his lap, how tears pricked his blood-shot eyes. The puffy redness surrounding them was making them brighter, greener. It was really beautiful. He loved how they looked up at him with pain, fear and a deep-seated desire to please. He didn’t usually like dull, obedient dogs, but he did like total control, and Gasper certainly seemed willing to give him all of it. His grip on his hair tightened, slapping his face as he fucked into him. The sloppy sounds of his prick pistoning in and out sounded lewd, wet. He was gagging and retching but Gortash didn’t let him go, bringing his broken nose taut against his groin and burying it there. Gasper yelped, spasmed instinctively, but the older man still held him there, gagging him with a cruel, cold smile. He didn’t break eye contact when he came, shooting down his subordinates throat, and he didn’t let go, feeling his cock pulsing within the warm, narrow passage. How it squeezed him! Gortash still didn’t release him, even as the last ropes of cum shot down his throat. In fact, he held him there until the boy stopped spasming and struggling. Until his eyes fluttered and then closed, that was when he finally released the young man.
Drool, blood and bile spilled from the boy’s lax, wetted lips, and he fell to the ground like a discarded child’s toy. Crashing into it with a harsh, solid thump. He didn’t stir. Gortash kneeled, hissing as it irritated his bad knee just slightly. He put two clawed finger’s to the boy’s thin neck. A thin, but steady thrum of life. That was good, he didn’t really feel any better, even after cumming. Part of him wondered if he would derive pleasure in doing what his lost lover often did to their playmates in the end; ripping them apart with toothy jagged bites, their massive maw wrapping around them and consuming big chunks. He imagined it. He wrapped his thick lips around the boy’s shoulder, tasted the salty sweat there. How hard would he have to bite with his rounded, useless human teeth? No. He sighed, pulling away. His dear assassin had force fed him flesh before. He hadn’t liked the taste. Still Gortash felt a longing. He so wished he could tear into soft human flesh, and bones. Their sinew and blood crunching into an explosion of red with a simple twitch of his jaws. He wished he wasn’t human, like his lover. Gortash so missed his lover.
Humans had such limitations. We’re so weak. He looked distastefully at the human collapsed on the floor. Gortash sniffed, dragged the boy along by the ankle, watching his face turn red as it rubbed raw against the red rug. A small trail of blood was smeared along as well, as his scabbing wounds were pressed against the flooring. Once Gasper was in the man’s small, rather tasteful bedroom (His home in the Upper City was much grander.) he cast tyrant’s bindings, four chains coming out and restraining the young man. His arms held up and his ankles held taut by the magical chains, the boy stuck in a taut “X”. The boy did not wake.
Gortash took his shirt off, his rings. He neatly folded them, making sure everything was just so. He didn’t want to get his nice, custom clothing dirty. They were expensive, hard to replace. Gasper was not. With that he stepped over to him, wrapped his arm around his thin waist. He was sticky, dripping in blood and wet. The boy smelled rank, of the various fluids he was covered in. Enver didn’t care. He nuzzled his face into the small of his neck, inhaling deeply. The smell reminded the man of his dearest friend, usually when they would first emerge from the sewers. Of course, the blood and viscera that clung to his beloved assassin was rarely his own. He kissed him gently, sucked on his neck to leave a little purpling hickey. Another mark of Gortash in a sea of marks. Gentleness was only allowed when the person wasn’t conscious to feel them. He could never let a subordinate feel him with anything but a strong firm hand.
How he missed his lover. With him he could be….he pushed the heretical thought away. But oh! How they would take control, unravel him. Gortash roughly palmed the brat’s crotch. His eyebrow rose again. The artificer supposed he hadn’t been paying much attention to it, when the boy was kneeling, more focused on the torture and then his own pleasure. Perhaps there was reason to keep the brat around after all. Gasper was big. It made Enver frown deeply. What he was working with was nothing too small, but compared to the devils he was raised servicing, and the dragonborn that had been his lover (Who had a massive hemipenis, in fact.). He’d always felt he was on the small side. The nobles of the Upper City swore up and down it was not true, sung him praises, but it was hard to forget how small he’d felt in comparison to the beasts he grew up with, and against the beast he’d chose to be his companion. And now. A human. Another human dwarfing him. His lip curled into a sneer. Gortash grabbed his cock, pressed it against the sleeping subordinate’s. He jerked them off together, licking his lips. Though unconscious the boy began to wriggle his hips just slightly, whimpering in his sleep. He jerked faster, starting to pant. His thick, hairy gut pressing against the younger man’s flat abdomen. When had he lost his muscled physique? In his prime, his mid to late twenties, he’d been quite fit. Slowly, over the years as a lord, his fitness routine had slipped just slightly. These last few weeks in particular though, all his routines had fallen apart. He’d been not sleeping, or eating right since his dearest companion had gone AWOL.
He swallowed thickly, before letting their cocks go. This wasn’t fair. Why would another human, with no special enhancements, be this big? It was practically a third leg. Against his own, it was three inches bigger, and as thick a wine bottle. Unfair! He released the two cocks, watched the boy’s swing and bob angrily. It was so big it couldn’t really bounce much, settling between his toned legs quickly. He grabbed the boy by the hair, slapped him awake. His subordinate groaned, mumbling sleepily.
“F-five more minutes….”
Gasper jumped suddenly, the pain coming back to him. He whimpered, pulling at the restraints before stilling, realizing Gortash was there, and the reason for his bondage.
“Did I….Did I do something wrong my Lord?”
Gasper asked in a small, scared voice. Gortash checked his nails. The Chosen chose to ignore the question.
“Tell me, what do you think of me?”
He asked, a blasé tone to his timber.
“Y-you’re blessed as unholy Bane's favoured. You’re perfect in every way. I’d follow y-“
“No.”
He snapped irritably, punching him in the stomach. The boy doubled over best he could restrained, spittle flying from his thick lips and eyes bulging out of his head. He coughed, wheezed breathless apologies.
“What do you think of me? My body?”
He gestures up and down, but his hand settles at his cock. Once his subordinate gathers himself he looks up and down the man’s body, still trembling from the most recent act of violence in the barrage being inflicted upon him.
“You’re…you’re beautiful sir. You look strong and smart and…”
His eyes desperately search the older man’s, trying to figure the right thing to say. The thing that will please him most.
“….and virile?”
He tries, his pitch lilting like a question. Unsure what to say, but trying desperately to make him happy.
“Hmmm.”
Gortash mused, leaning over and squeezing the boy’s dick. A high pitched, animal like whine emits from the young man. Base pain, no other emotion was in that whine. But even as tears dribbled down his face, he nods, rapid and reverent. Enver couldn’t leave here with any marks. He couldn’t, and he wouldn’t. No weakness, especially at such a vulnerable time. But young Gasper? His hand tightened around the base of his cock, the applied pressure becoming something horrendous. The length was turning colors, red, purple, and then a sickly blue. A shriek was ripped from the young man, and despite his best attempts to stay still, he seized, legs shaking.
“Would you give me this, if I asked?”
He muttered into the shell of the sobbing, miserable young man’s ear, lightening the pressure, but never actually letting go.
“You do not need it. You have the face, figure and temperament of someone meant to lie on their back.”
“I…”
For the first time the young man seemed unsure, looking down with horror, and then up with fear.
“Why am I even asking? Of course you would. You wouldn’t deny your Chosen, would you?”
After a long moment the boy’s shoulder’s sagged defeatedly.
“…You do know best, my lord.”
“I do.”
He muttered, more to himself than to the younger man. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d severed an appendage. Not even close. He’d become an expert at it, perfecting the Steelwatch.
“Don’t worry. You will not die.”
It was the truth. He would not let him die. Gortash wanted to see the after effects. The way the boy would wobble, struggle. He wondered if he’d be able to pass urine. If he couldn’t, Gasper was in for a very bad time. But observing his little experiment would give him a reason to get out of bed, besides simple paranoia and fear as the walls closed in on him.
Gortash walked over to his drawer of potions and poisons, pulled out one that would numb, as well as a bunch of medical supplies, dumped them on his bed so they were close to where young Gasper was restrained. The boy had been punished quite fully, and while he had no sympathy for the young man, he didn’t want him going into shock and dying during this procedure.
“Drink.”
He said authoritatively, tilting it to pour down the brat’s throat. Gasper did it without question, opening his mouth and drinking it down without protest. Pathetic little thing. Immediately the boy’s eyes started to droop, his tensed, battered body relaxing. The young man was under the effect of the opioid. Which was good. Gortash bandaged his arms, his legs, and his waist. Wrapping him tight so his narrow waist looked even narrower, and his muscles bulged in odd ways.
“It’ll help control the blood loss.”
The Chosen said matter-of-factly. The boy looked at him, blinking slowly. He was high, pupils blown out so much his eyes almost matched Gortash’s now, big and black with only the tiniest sliver of green visible.
“You smell nice my Lord.”
The Chosen chuckled.
“Thank you for noticing Gasper. It is a very expensive fragrance. I import from Calimshan.”
He said conversationally, sauntering over to a scimitar on his weapons rack. It would work, long and flat and sharp. Gortash moseyed back, brought it to the boy’s groin.
“My Lord I…”
The deep, moist thwack of the blade slashing through the tissue that blanketed Gasper’s pelvic bone licked the two men’s ears. The scimitar came up and down, over and over and over.
TWACK. TWACK. TWACK.
Hard deep cuts, through skin and muscle and connecting tissue. Serrating until the blade flies free, leaving a huge bloody gash where his cock and balls used to hang. The boy howled, shrieked, thrashed. Gortash imagined the pain the boy was in is overwhelming, even with the numbing effect of alinduth. Gasper released a gurgled sob, cut off by him suddenly puking, more vomit dripping down his messy chest and onto the wound.
“Tch. You’re making a mess!”
Gortash cried indignantly. He pinched the bridge of his nose in annoyance. Would nothing go his way today? He cast the blade aside, and it clattered to the floor. He took one of the bandages he left on the bed, soaked it with rubbing alcohol and wiped up the sick, blood and everything else on the body. Fastidiously cleaned the massive, gaping wound. The boy was still seizing. He needed to do this quickly now. Gortash shoved a small cylindrical piece of metal into his urethra. Had to make sure it didn’t close. Then he took another roll of gauze from his bed, wrapped it tight as he took in the boy’s symphony of suffering. The young man was squirming, wriggling as he screeched and sobbed.
“Be still damnit!”
He snarled, looking up at the inconsolable brat. Gasper looked down, took a shuddering breath- and listened to the order.
“Good boy.”
He praised quietly, watching the blood seep through the bandages. He cast a simple healing spell. Between the tourniquets and his casting, the bleeding should stop.
The room filled with the smell of metal and antiseptic, the sharp tang of something that didn’t quite mask the deeper scent beneath. Gortash exhaled slowly, pressing two fingers to the bridge of his nose once more.
This was becoming tedious. It was not making him feel any better.
Still chained before him, Gasper writhed—his body reduced to shudders, breath ragged, pupils unfocused. He was quieting though, the screams fading into weak, shivering whimpers. He was barely coherent now, slipping in and out of awareness.
Gortash took a step back, rocking on the balls of his feet, assessing his work with the same meticulous scrutiny he gave to war plans. The bleeding had all but stopped now, the bandages doing their job well enough. Still, the boy’s body trembled, flickering like a candle in the wind.
“What disorder.”
Gortash muttered, more to himself than to the other man. He clicked his tongue in irritation, surveying the disarray within his home. The man hated mess. He liked things orderly.
He would have to call someone to clean this up ASAP.
Again. This past month he’d been so out of sorts.
Slowly, he leaned down, his fingers trailing along Gasper’s sweat-drenched temple. The younger man flinched, but Gortash merely tsked and brushed his sweat-slick hair from his face with something almost resembling tenderness. Almost.
“I’d say that you’ve learned your lesson.”
He murmured, voice smooth, measured.
“You understand the lessons I’ve imparted to you here?”
Gortash wasn’t sure of them himself, but he was sure if push came to shove he could find a Banite scripture to justify the ordeal he’d just put him through. The truth was lust, jealousy, dread and other dark emotions had piloted his actions. But he didn’t need to justify himself. He was the head of their church. And if there was one tenet he lived his entire life by it was those who did not stop themselves from being subjugated deserved what came with that. So the young subordinate had deserved everything that came to pass today. He brusquely patted the bloody stump.
“Well?”
Gasper didn’t answer verbally. He just tensed, let out a low, shrill whine. His body folded into itself, curling inward as much as the restraints allowed, eyes squeezing shut against whatever came next. But he nodded. Rapidly, teeth clenched and fist balled. Gortash studied him with a vague sort of curiosity, as though inspecting the resilience of a blade after prolonged use.
"Good."
He mused, fingers tracing downward, idly pressing against a sticky thigh. The words held no real praise—only an acknowledgment of his submission. He drifted away, towards the window. The place his lover would usually appear from, during better days. Better times. He slipped on a robe, padded outside, and felt the fresh cool weather, the sea breeze air. It was a nice change, the hot, stuffy air of blood and sex and surgery becoming a bit stifling in his bedroom.
Outside, the city hummed with life, blissfully unaware of what just took place within the walls of the fortress. Gortash stood there, the cool air brushing against his skin, a momentary distraction from the chaotic thoughts and feelings whirling in his mind. His gaze flickered back to the trembling form of Gasper through the open door, still chained and suffering. His body was an evidence of the price one paid for weakness amongst Bane’s faithful. But the sight did little to satisfy him. It didn't quell the restlessness that gnawed at his insides. It didn't silence the gnawing sense of dissatisfaction that had followed him for days, weeks even.
He sighed, shaking his head as if to dispel the thoughts creeping into his mind. This... this was supposed to make him feel more in control. More secure. More... settled. But instead, all it did was heighten the sense that something was slipping through his fingers, something vital, something he couldn't quite grasp.
His hands curled into fists. The walls weren’t closing in. They weren’t.
He had built his church, his power, himself from the ground up. He was finally going to be Archduke, finally in power and the power would remain his. But deep down the man knew power, no matter how much one commanded, was never still. It always moved, always shifted. One wrong move, and it could crumble. So, he focused on that. The brain. The next challenge. The next step in their plan. He had no choice but to move forward. To keep his eyes on the goal. Even if he felt the pressure of the walls, felt the growing disquiet within, his mind already was calculating the next phase of his plans, ignoring the tightness in his chest, the unspoken frustration, the gnawing sense of loss.
He cast one final side-long glance at Gasper’s trembling form through the open door, before turning away, using one of his scrying eyes floating by to call for his most trusted man. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d called a Banite underling up to clean up his mess. Gasper was lucky though, most Banites did not live through disciplinary actions. The boy would live. He was…sixty percent sure. As long as no infections took. Hopefully the boy’s doting mother would help clean the bloody gash. Yes. He expected she would, the way she lingered outside the Steelwatch with big, hopeful eyes. Whether his continued living was mercy or cruelty, only time would tell. He forced his mind away from his actions, from turmoil, walking back into his home and ignoring the body dangling there as if he was wearing horse-blinders, washing his skin quickly and dressing quicker, the laces on his top not quite done. He dabbed himself with cologne, tearing out the door.
Work. There was always work to be done.
And that would sustain him. Fill the aching void in his chest.
At least, that’s what he kept telling himself.
He had to.