Where Dead Grass Grows
The room is a scene.
It is set specifically.
It is set for Gorlim.
On every surface of the room that could support it are candles. The only light in the room. Candles flickering, dancing the shadows around. Ruin stands in centre of the room, surrounded by the golden light, dressed in only a thin robe. Metal flashes on the tips of his thumbs, his eyes dangerous, storms roiling behind the gaze. Beside the bed, on a silver tray, are items for and restraint. A polished blade, honed and sharpened, ready to let blood flow. Metal cuffs that could keep hands bound to the headboard, allowing Ruin uninterrupted freedom over the body beneath him. And a candle, burning low in its glass container, with a long, thin piece of metal lying beside it.
Not his most imaginative, but he had two weeks to explore all sort of pains, pleasures, and mental torments.
So, Ruin stands.
And Ruin waits.
The scene is set.
It is set specifically.
It is set for Gorlim.
On every surface of the room that could support it are candles. The only light in the room. Candles flickering, dancing the shadows around. Ruin stands in centre of the room, surrounded by the golden light, dressed in only a thin robe. Metal flashes on the tips of his thumbs, his eyes dangerous, storms roiling behind the gaze. Beside the bed, on a silver tray, are items for and restraint. A polished blade, honed and sharpened, ready to let blood flow. Metal cuffs that could keep hands bound to the headboard, allowing Ruin uninterrupted freedom over the body beneath him. And a candle, burning low in its glass container, with a long, thin piece of metal lying beside it.
Not his most imaginative, but he had two weeks to explore all sort of pains, pleasures, and mental torments.
So, Ruin stands.
And Ruin waits.
The scene is set.