Hello. It is me again. I know that this has been a slow story. I have been puzzling out where to go with this. I will keep trying. Thank you for all my loyal fans, followers, and reviewers. Read and review.
The fire was bright and warm. Perfect for keeping the chill of the cold night at bay.
The knight of Thorns idly glanced at the flames as they danced. His sword, a finely crafted hand-and-a-half, lay across his lap, freshly oiled, cleaned, and sharpened. Its pommel was that of a small, onyx skull, and the long grey blade was painted and etched with dark depictions of ravens, weighing scales gripped in skeletal hands, silver gauntlets pointing upwards, and black gloves clasping gold coins, all intertwined with swirling runes of gold, black, blue, and white.
However, the sword lay undisturbed across his lap, for his attention was fully upon the mask held in his hands. His mask, the mask which was his face. Though it appeared to have no openings for either sight or air, both actually functioned to a great extent. It was as white as bone, and covered in bas-reliefs of thorny vines intertwined with the scales of Kelemvor the Judge, the black glove of Hoar the vengeful, and the gauntlet of Torm the Just, all to create a terrifying facsimile of a face. For 16 years, the designs on the mask had grown more intricate with each step he took down this path. For 16 years, either death, justice, vengeance, or some freakish mix of the three had kept the knight alive.
"Feeling gloomy are we? Oh wait, silly question. Of course you are, as always. Especially when you look at that mask."
The Knight did not bother to look up. He knew the source of the voice, knew what body it emanated from. Clad in black and scarlet leathers, skin and hair as white as bone, and with a strange mark on his cheek, the illusion that seemed to ever haunt and mock him ever since what had happened years ago. Usually he ignored it, but on some days, he gave in and argued with the apparition.
"So, you finally decided to send a living message, eh? Very bold. Foolish, but bold. For 16 years, you were simply an intangible spirit, a murderer of a few flayed men here and there, but now, two weeks later... you are a living thing to them. Something for the Boltons to hunt down. Foolish."
The knight looked up. The apparition appeared to be sitting cross-legged on the other side of the small fire. Its blood red eyes stared at him with mockery. The knight said nothing.
"I wonder how long it will take for Ramsay to hunt you down, now that you left a survivor." The knight's brow furrowed at the mention of that name.
"What, are you going to scream or yell at me to "not mention that blasted name!"? Or maybe just continue to stare and stare at me?"
The knight ignored the "albino", and kept staring at the visage in his face, contemplating. Lately, his dreams had been odd. He only remembered flashes, images of a beautiful woman with long, silver hair wielding a long, curved sword, and of a featureless creature with white skin and hair clad in black leathers and a black mask.
"Troublesome dreams?"
This time, the knight glared at the apparition. In return, he got a mocking grin. "Ah, I am right. But of course, I always am. After all, ravens are smarter than they seem."
"I do wonder, oh Knight of Thorns, what you do plan to do now, since you seem to be heading towards the direction of the Bolton House. Is your plan to strike at the heart of the beast...
"Silence."
The illusion leaned back, an expression of mock surprise upon his face. "Oho, he speaks! How grand!"
Whatever the apparition was about to say next was suddenly silenced at the sound of far off footsteps. The knight's ears perked. The apparition grinned. "It seems you have company."
The knight worked quickly, putting out his fire, donning his mask, and mounting his horse, a female black charger with red eyes named Rose, and made her trot several feet away from the camp site., then took up his bow and nocked an arrow. The cold wind bit deep, but he did not flinch. He and his mount stood silently, for many moments, as the footsteps came closer. It was a small company of men, 4 at most, lightly garbed in chainmail and leathers. They rode horses, one carried a bright torch, and stitched upon their tabards was a flayed man. It seemed his message had been received after all.
"Are you sure this is where the fire was?" He heard one of them ask his compatriots.
"Quite sure, Jarryd."
"Shame it was put out. Bloody cold."
"Think it belonged to the person Lord Ramasy has been screaming at us to find?"
"Nah. Wot would be the chances that we would be the ones to find the "Knight of Thorns" own campsite? He would have to be a fool to stay in the Bolton territory, especially after wot he did"
The knight then loosed his arrow at the torch holder. Before the shadar-kai knew what had happened, an arrow had sprouted from his chest, and he fell over, dead. Within moments, the rest began to panic as darkness submerged them, and he charged forward. His sword flashed. Another lost his head. By the time the final two could draw their weapons it was too late. The last thing either of them saw was a sword arching towards them, wielded by a specter mounted upon a terrifying steed.
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Jarryd led a relatively simple, yet demanding life. As a soldier in the employ of House Bolton, he had been ordered to do things that left hims with many a sleepless night. While many of his fellows learned to enjoy and take pleasure from what they did, Jarryd was of a minority that tried to skirt the edge of their orders as best as possible, and only do what was needed to ensure that their families were kept safe from Bolton displeasure.
Now, he awoke to a find himself in a strange and peculiar predicament. He was tied to a tree, while a fire blazed several feet from him. While this in itself was frightening, what made it terrifying was the man standing a several from his restrained self. The man wore a strange mask, which appeared to show a horrifying face set in the shape of a judging frown, and seemed to be staring right into Jarryd's soul. He then drew a long, thin dagger.
"No, please! Have mercy." Jerry begged.
"Speak to me of your crimes, man of the Dreadfort." The man's voice was like a whisper, quiet and terrifying, like the sound of Death itself.
"What crimes?! I am just a simple soldier!"
"You wear the flayed man on your chest. You are innocent of nothing. I will ask again. What crimes have you committed?"
"I swear to you! I have committed no crimes! Please!"
"Name me your crimes." The dagger flashed, and Jarryd felt blood run down his ear. He screamed.
"Name me your crimes." "Please! I tell you, I have done nothing! I have a family! Please!" A second cut.
On and on this went. The same demand, another plea for mercy, and then another cut. Soon, Jarryd's face seemed to be wearing a red, wet mask.
Finally, he could take no more. He began to sob. "I'm sorry, Mora." He said.
His tormentor paused. "Who is Mora?" he asked.
"M-my wife. I love her more than life itself. Please, I may have done terrible things, but I need to survive. She does too, her and our child. Please!"
The Knight of thorns stood there, knife hand posed, as if to cut some more, then he lowered the dagger, breathed out a sigh that seemed exasperated, and the last thing Jarryd saw before fainting was the knight's empty hand reaching towards him.
The next morning, Jarryd would awake to find his face fully healed of all cuts, and his horse tied to a tree.