It's human. He thinks. There’s been little opportunity to study those others, but the size fits. The absent horns fit. The odd, spiraling carvings, less so.
Glokta leans himself against the skull, free hand tugging carefully at the crystal rammed through it. The pillar wobbles dangerously, and he gives up with a curse. No way to do it without sending them both the damn mountain.
He shifts heavily onto his cane, braces himself against the oncoming wave of pain. This little outing's been hardly worth the price of admission. A glower down the short slope back to camp reminds him that the worst is yet to come.
“Who made you?” He demands. The dead man doesn’t answer. Recalcitrant fuck.
- b. PAPERWORK
Glokta’s never been a man for books, but here even a basic grasp of letters and accounts seems a skill in demand.
He’s set up shop in the town’s second inn. The crude sign out front can’t disguise its origins, converted from an abandoned home by unscrupulous neighbors. The Inquisition’s business here has seen a thriving industry in warm food and drafty accommodations, even as winter strips the fields bare. How much rat is passed off as rabbit, now? How much cat? Sometimes it pays not to chew.
So he sits, and he drinks, and he makes it known that the Inquisition is offering his services. It’s tedious — mercenaries checking their pay, and peasants wanting messages drafted. Always some inane prattle about births, and deaths, and the sustaining power of faith. But there’s meat in there too: Passes blocked, soil gone bad, a suspicious new Orlesian dress.
Gossip. It’s a web, then a window. And if sifting through it all gives him a pounding headache then at least it’s kept him busy. If you must be a monster, be a useful one.
“Yes, yes, have a seat.” He gestures impatiently, without looking up.
-
c. PLAIN GOLD RING
There’s a wedding in the square.
A robed woman — doubtless some form of acolyte — beams before the couple, hands raised in blessing. The pair stare into each other’s eyes with the undisguised self-interest of youth. Around them, houses crumble and the woods strain with war. But in that moment, there’s only them. The scene radiates benevolence, hope. Vapidity.
Glokta turns away, rubbing his gums.
He’s not two steps before a shriek rings out. The little crowd falls back as the groom sputters, choking, clutching at the knife buried in his gut. Blackness seeps across his fine shirt, his pained gasps steaming on the chill air. A wiry young girl kicks and bites, desperately trying to throw off the hands suddenly grabbing for her. The bride won't stop screaming.
sand dan glokta | the first law (rifter)
It's human. He thinks. There’s been little opportunity to study those others, but the size fits. The absent horns fit. The odd, spiraling carvings, less so.
Glokta leans himself against the skull, free hand tugging carefully at the crystal rammed through it. The pillar wobbles dangerously, and he gives up with a curse. No way to do it without sending them both the damn mountain.
He shifts heavily onto his cane, braces himself against the oncoming wave of pain. This little outing's been hardly worth the price of admission. A glower down the short slope back to camp reminds him that the worst is yet to come.
“Who made you?” He demands. The dead man doesn’t answer. Recalcitrant fuck.
-
b. PAPERWORK
Glokta’s never been a man for books, but here even a basic grasp of letters and accounts seems a skill in demand.
He’s set up shop in the town’s second inn. The crude sign out front can’t disguise its origins, converted from an abandoned home by unscrupulous neighbors. The Inquisition’s business here has seen a thriving industry in warm food and drafty accommodations, even as winter strips the fields bare. How much rat is passed off as rabbit, now? How much cat? Sometimes it pays not to chew.
So he sits, and he drinks, and he makes it known that the Inquisition is offering his services. It’s tedious — mercenaries checking their pay, and peasants wanting messages drafted. Always some inane prattle about births, and deaths, and the sustaining power of faith. But there’s meat in there too: Passes blocked, soil gone bad, a suspicious new Orlesian dress.
Gossip. It’s a web, then a window. And if sifting through it all gives him a pounding headache then at least it’s kept him busy. If you must be a monster, be a useful one.
“Yes, yes, have a seat.” He gestures impatiently, without looking up.
-
c. PLAIN GOLD RING
There’s a wedding in the square.
A robed woman — doubtless some form of acolyte — beams before the couple, hands raised in blessing. The pair stare into each other’s eyes with the undisguised self-interest of youth. Around them, houses crumble and the woods strain with war. But in that moment, there’s only them. The scene radiates benevolence, hope. Vapidity.
Glokta turns away, rubbing his gums.
He’s not two steps before a shriek rings out. The little crowd falls back as the groom sputters, choking, clutching at the knife buried in his gut. Blackness seeps across his fine shirt, his pained gasps steaming on the chill air. A wiry young girl kicks and bites, desperately trying to throw off the hands suddenly grabbing for her. The bride won't stop screaming.