The dry rustling of dead leaves was the only sound to be heard from inside the small clay hut. It was a little cube shaped abode, one room, and one door. Outside, the sun baked what was once an aloe garden, but what was now a barren strip of sun bleached dirt adorned with a wilted and crisping aloe plant.
Her long spined stalks shifted against eachother and rasped aloud in the silence, giving an odd serenity to this desolate place. But it was also a reminder of what this place was. It was a place for death.
Inside the hut, in exception of the strip of light that laid in front of the doorway, for it had no door, the room was encased in a cool shadow. Like all houses built in Essyrn, this one was built with temperature control in mind, and kept the interior heavily shadowed. Inside, just close enough to the door to be partially lit, was a table. Wooden of make and old of years, the furniture looked like it had been long since better days. Cracks ran across it's top, and the wood had gnarled with age. That, though, would not be what drew attention to the small and rather insignificant table. No, it would be the deep crimson liquid that had drained into the cracks, and soaked into the grain that one would notice first. The dark liquid was dripping grin a corner of the table and had saturated the sand beneath it.
Beside the table lay a chair, sunken ever so slightly into the clay floor of the hut, and in that chair sat a man without his fingers.
In fact, it was from the stubs of what were once his ring and pinkie fingers that the blood, as that was what it was, had gushed from. Now, the pumping blood was at a weak stream, and the man from which it came was pale and his face drawn in its absence. He was a short man, stout and pudgy. His nose was large and hooked and his chin weak, but he had eyes like an eagle's, sharp and glaring. They had recently taken on a glazed look, and now stared lazily at the ceiling.
He wore a skirt, and a butcher's apron, but no shirt covered his rotund girth. He was a man fat on wealth that did not belong to him, complacent in a place where complacency kills. As to how specifically he ended up here, in a small hut so remote that if you were to climb upon it and gaze around, the only thing you would see is sand, in every direction for miles... that cannot be said. Who brought him here, however, can be mentioned. Lucian Blassköhl brought him here, personally, three days prior, and had severed his fingers.
Then he had left this man, this fat, gluttonous man, with no food, no water, and two less fingers. And he had nailed the butcher's knees to the chair as a fairwell present before he departed. Brys, as the man shall be named, had slowly been dying of dehydration, and blood loss. It would be soon. He could feel death's cold hands wrapped around his legs, even as they still throbbed in agonizing pain. Brys laid his head slowly backward, for he could move no faster than a crawl in his current state, and croaked out a plea to his gods, a plea to save him from eternal damnation, a plea for redemption, and most of all a plea of vengeance on Blassköhl, and his entire family. It was with his last syllable that he drew a rattling breath, and the life slipped from his body...
Brys came to in a basement, underground for sure, very confused. What was worse, was that he had all of his fingers, and his knees were not shattered. Nor was he dehydrated, in fact he felt just as well as he had three days ago, before Lucian had taken him. The pain still echoed sharply in his mind, and the agonizing thirst was faint, like a memory of an injury long past, but here he was.
Brys began to weep, both in joy for knowing that he was not dead in the sand, but also in sorrow, for in the past three days he had experienced the most painful and mentally taxing experience he had ever faced. And he had thought over his experiences, he had repented in all but name. It seemed the gods had granted him mercy, and a second chance.
"How do you feel Brys?" A voice said to him. He knew that voice. Blassköhl.
Brys recoiled, sliding against the damp stone of the cellar, his eyes wide in fear and confusion. How could Lucian be here? In fact, how did he get here himself?
"Did you enjoy your little vacation?" Again the voice from darkness, and Brys had no answer, "I trust you will be reporting exactly how much coin you make from now on?"
Brys did not understand what had happened, or how, but he could guess as to why. His greed had resulted in this nightmare. In his terror, he nodded in agreement to Lucian's question. The next thing he heard was a high pitched whistle and then all went black.
The Butcher would wake in his own home, soon, but by then Lucian would be on his way back to the gang headquarters. He needed rest. Inducing such an illusion, compressing three days into half an hour, was taxing. Brys would, if he was smart, start giving a truthful representation of his earnings to the Sandlillies. If not, his next encounter with the Son in the South would not be so imaginary.
Lucian, although stoic and cold to the world on the journey from the outer slum to his inner city apartments, was anticipating the headquarters. He enjoyed the company of his long time friends, and had words for a few. Goyne, their number cruncher, would need to be updated on the status of the butcher's income. He wanted to speak to El'sahm about ordering more alcohol for the upcoming party the Sandlillies were hosting, and he wanted to speak to Zira. Even if he couldn't always get out what he wanted to say, simple conversation with her calmed his nerves. The two men who had accompanied him to the Butcher's territory stalked behind him like dogs to their master. Lucian snorted at the comparison; It wasn't so far from the truth.