There are many Shadar-Kai and Shadowborn Houses of both great and terrible repute throughout the kingdom of Ikemmu.
Foremost, the house of Korlon, mighty rulers of the kingdom of Ikemmu for over seven thousand years. Claiming the ancestry of an ancient demigod, many kings and queens have stemmed from their bloodline, both great, like Queen Codruta the Just, and terrible, such as Hutahn the Despot.
The brooding yet loyal nobles of House Stark. Once, they ruled the land which would become Ikemmu, long in the misty past, and now they serve as castellans, advisors, and protectors of Ikemmu's ruling family.
The wild and proud warriors of House Umber, renowned for their great height and absolute fearlessness in battle through their neigh-fanatic, and somewhat suicidal, devotion to Tempus, the great deity of war and battle. Often the vanguards in any skirmish or war, their mighty weapons, ringing war cries, and fearless charges into the enemy ranks have been at times known to help turn what would be a crushing defeat into a rallying victory.
The pinpoint accuracy of the famed archers of House Rok, the Lords and Ladies of the mountainside fortress of Raven's Roost. Once lossed from their mighty bows, their humming arrows are known to find the hearts of their enemies across impossible distances, while their priests send souls to the embrace of the Raven Queen. Each generation is led by their greatest archer, known as the Falconeye, selected from among the best of the bloodline. To them, many mountain clans owe allegiance.
House Glover, known for their masterful smithies and powerful soldiers. In the past, their warriors, with strong armor, deadly arms, and regimented training and discipline, have helped beat back many a wildling attack on their home of Deepwood Motte, which still has the dubious distinction of being the first area that the ancient shadar-kai had conquered in the War of the Arrival.
All these and more, each with their own legends and songs and cautionary tales, but few are as more known or feared then the Lords of the Dreadfort, the House of Bolton.
Despite their near extinction during the War of Arrival, the House and its bloodline had pulled itself back up into greatness during the past 7 millennia. However, even in Ikemmu, a dark shroud of infamy hangs over the Line of the Flayed Man. Often used as torturers by the ancient Korlon kings of the past, though they had quietly fallen out of that profession, it is whispered that they still hone their skills and practice that dreaded trade secretly within their walls. It is a house of ill-repute, and its lands are ones ruled by a grim house of a grim people, with those under them living quietly in fear. They are lands not oft traveled or visited by outsiders.
It was normally a quiet tavern, at the best of times. It was the kind often occupied by the same sort of patrons on a daily basis; craftsmen relaxing between shifts in their master's stores, roving warriors and travelers stopping by for filling, if not wholesome, meals and drinks while on their traversing of Ikemmu's roads, and many others.
However, the quiet was not out of any common decency or desire for tranquility. No, it was out of fear, for this particular tavern was situated within a town that lay roughly nine miles within the edge of Bolton Territory, which still meant that at any time, soldiers and men sworn to that dreaded House, or even Lord Bolton's son if the goddess Beshaba was feeling particularly cruel, could burst through the door, bully the owners into submission, have a little "fun" with any hapless women, either tavern waitresses or daughters, if the mood so came upon them, and most likely end their little spree with a few murders for pleasure.
"Oy, barkeep, you call this swill ale?! This is fuckin' pig piss." The soldier, a frather unpleasant fellow named Orwyn, screeched, in a voice that one could liken to the screeching of a pig being slaughtered.
"I-I-I apologize, ser." The thin shadowborn proprietor stuttered. "B-b-but it is the b-b-best that I have in stock a-a-at th-th-the moment."
The man's "best" was promptly emptied over his head, which was then followed by a smashing fist to the nose by the irate shadowborn, while his companions cheered him on. He then headed to the table his fellows were sitting at, where one of them was bestowing his most unwanted attentions upon a rather uncomfortable bar maid. "Well, yoor best is not good enough, lickspittle!" Orwyn replied in a rather idiotic manner, as he laid his arse upon a chair. "You better get something better than yoor best. In case yoo haven't 'eard, the king hisself has declared a biiiig celebration. So, I think that a celebration ordered by the king hisself means we need to have good drink. Of course, if yoo can't give us some good drink, than we just may have to complain to Lord Ramsay. Understand, shit stain?"
"Y-y-es, ser." The Proprietor stammered out.
"Very good."
Ordinarily, one would have already sent for the town guard to corral these troublemakers into the prisons to cool their heels, at the very least. How unfortunate then, for the patrons and owner of the tavern then, that three key things were preventing anyone from doing just that; first, these were Bolton men, which meant they could do what they wanted without much fear of repercussion; second, it did not help that this particular man's cronies were the town guard; thirdly, it was made worse due to the fact that these men answered to Lord Bolton's infamous son.
These three facts were what made the rest of the tavern's patrons keep from intervening on the proprietor's behalf. All were tense and terrified. All that was, except for one figure.
Garbed in a long cloak and hood, this particular individual had strode in earlier that day, a good few hours before the soldiers of the Flayed men had arrived. He (for his bulk was undoutably that of a male) had walked to a table, and simply sat down, thumbing through a small book. He had remained that way even when the Bolton soldiers had all sauntered in, not bothering to raise his head at their arrival. However, upon hearing Orwyn mention his master, the traveler's head perked up. He seemed to watched them for several moments, as they guzzled alcohol and groped serving wenches, then closed the book, stood up, and walked over to the table where Orwyn and his compatriots were seated, already deep in their cups. Upon hearing his footsteps, Orwyn's head rose, and his eyes blinked at the stranger.
"You said that you serve Lord Bolton's son, correct?" The man asked.
If Orwyn had been a little more intelligent, a little less drunk, and a little less stupid, he would thought that the hooded man's soft and whispering tone sounded familiar, but alas, he was neither of these things, so he did not.
"Yeshh, I do. So what, shit-stain?" He slurred.
The cloaked figure sighed, and then, suddenly, jabbed a long, jagged dirk through the back of Orwyn's hand and into the wooden table it rested upon.
Being drunk and stupid, it took Orwyn and his fellows a full moment that there was a foot-long length of steel imbedded in his hand. Once that moment had passed, Orwyn screamed in pain, and his friends tried to rush the cloaked man.
Faster than most people could move, the man sprang into action. Dodging one soldier's flying fist, he punched the fist's owner hard in the throat with a primal haymaker, crushing his windpipe and sending him down to floor gasping.
After kicking a second would-be attacker hard in his manhood, the figure than proceeded to drawn from his cloak a cruelly serrated short sword, which was quickly used to viciously slash open another soldier's throat, unleashing a crimson arterial spray.
One Bolton soldier attempted to leap upon the man's back and use a stranglehold. This was only partly successful. Without panicking, and only slightly staggering, the hooded man reached up behind with one of his long arms and jammed his sword through the side of the head of his unwanted passenger. At this, the Bolton man's body went lip and he slid off back and blade onto the floor with a thump. The sword, with some grey matter still attached, was soon brought to bear against the rest of the soldiers of the Flayed Man.
After several minutes, the rest of the attackers lay dead and dying upon the bloody wooden floor, all while the rest of the patrons had fled in abject terror. The one who was kicked in his manhood was still alive though, groaning on the ground. The hooded figure's head tilted, as if considering something, then walked over, planted his foot on the man's throat, and stepped down hard. The sound that resounded from the act was a horrifyingly wet crunch, like the sound of someone biting loudly into a crunchy piece of food.
The killer then turned to poor, screaming Orwyn, and drew back his hood. From what the soldier could see through his haze of pain, his attacker appeared to be a shadar-kai, though he wore a mask covering his entire face, decorated with motifs of thorny vines intertwined with Kelemvor's scales. His hair seemed long, about shoulder length, and it was colored a grayish white with streaks of light and dark brown running through it. His eyes were still unseen.
"Who are you", Orwyn fearfully whispered through the pain.
"A ghost. Now then," the shadar-kai said in his whispering voice, sitting down next to Orwyn as if he was a drinking friend, "I am going to ask you some questions. Answer me falsely, and this dirk sinks deeper."
He emphasized this statement by putting his palm on the dirks pommel and giving it a hard push downwards on its handle. Orwyn hissed in pain. "Answer me truthfully, and it rises an inch. If you give me nothing but falsehoods, and this long dirk's hilt touches the back of your hand, then we will have a problem."
"All right, all right! Wh-wh-what do you want to know?" Orwyn sobbed.
"First, your name."
"Or-Orwyn, ser."
The dirk rose half an inch.
"Very good. Next question. You said you serve Lord Bolton's son, correct?"
"Yes! Please good ser, I-I have a family, and I must…." The blade sank two inches. Another scream.
"Good, but what did I say about falsehoods?"
"I'm sorry, I'm sorry!"
"Very well. Next question, and this is an important question. Where is your master now?"
When Orwyn failed to answer, the man pushed the blade even deeper.
Over the screams, the shadar-kai sighed. "I will ask one more time. Where. Is. Your. Master?"
"I don't know! Please, in the name of the gods, I don't know. He goes on hunting trips in the forests! He can be gone for days at a time. But he is probably at the Dreadfort again! Please, have mercy! I can't stand the pain!"
The masked man tilted his head, as if "Mercy? You can't stand the pain? Those are strange words to emanate from lips of a Bolton man. But, since you so insist...alright, I am feeling generous. I shall give you mercy." Upon saying this, he stood up from his seat, unsheathed the short sword from his side once again and, with one swing, cut off the hand, leaving it pinned to the table, and poor Orwyn to fall to the ground, clutching his bloody stump. The only reason poor Orwyn did not scream this time was due to the fact that his throat was so hoarse from the previous bout.
The masked man stood over him, gave poor Orwyn a swift kick to the ribs, and then grabbed him by the collar, hoisting his victim back upon his feet, bringing the terrified Bolton man close to the killer's masked face. "You should probably see the town healer or cleric to bandage and treat that injury, though whether they will bother is up to them. If they do, you will make sure that you pay twice the full price, out of heartfelt thanks for their generosity. And then, when you have regained enough strength to return to the Dreadfort, you shall, and once you are there, you will show your masters this wound, and tell them that the Knight of Thorns sends his regards. Most importantly, tell Ramsay Whoreson that he is going to die. Tell the bastard of Bolton that I. Will. Kill. Him."
With that, he let go of poor Orwyn, who proceeded to hurriedly limped out of the tavern towards the town cleric, droplets of blood leaking out from his new stump, between the cracks of his remaining hand's fingers, and onto the ground behind him.
The Knight of Thorns looked around, surveying the small amount of bloody carnage he had caused. He heard whimpering. Turning his masked head, he saw the proprietor cowering on the floor, blood still streaming down his broken nose, and his trembling hands raised up in a shielding gesture. Reaching into a pouch on his belt, the killer withdrew several gold coins and set them upon the table.
"This should pay for the damages", he said. Then, he strode towards the door, yanking his dirk out of poor Orwyn's forgotten hand as he left, leaving the cowering proprietor the only living person left in the establishment.
It was normally a quiet tavern, at the best of times.