II-19: The Blood Price
"Son of a…"
The inn's door creaked shut behind Greg with a hollow thud that matched the empty feeling in his chest. Dawn had long since broken over the village, pale light creeping over thatched roofs like nature's way of making a joke of everything that had happened last night. Birds were chirping somewhere, their cheerful chirping so disconnected from reality it made his teeth ache.
Hell, it was almost about to be noon.
Greg's eyes burned from exhaustion, his hands still trembling slightly from the adrenaline crash. The memory of what he'd found in those dungeons kept flashing through his mind - the prisoners, dozens of them, lying there in drug-induced stupors while the guards walked around like they owned the place.
Like what they were doing was normal.
Guess basic human decency isn't part of guard training here, Greg thought bitterly, watching villagers hurry past him with quick, fearful glances. Some of them looked angry, which was rich considering what their precious guards had been doing right under their noses. A few muttered under their breath, probably cursing him in their weird northern way, but nobody dared come close.
His muscles screamed in protest as he lowered himself onto the inn's steps, the wood creaking under his weight. The guard captain's face flashed through his mind - the way it had looked after Greg had finished with him, bloody and swollen but still wearing that smug expression right up until Ash had growled.
The night played back in his head like a bad movie: the sound of boots on stone as he'd dragged the guards down the keep's halls, their protests turning to whimpers when they realized no one was coming to help them. The way the townspeople had gathered, their shocked faces illuminated by torchlight as he'd forced their "protectors" to walk bound through the streets.
"Devil child!" Someone had screamed. "Ye can't do this!"
But he had done it.
Because someone had to.
Because finding those people in the dungeons, seeing what had been done to them...
Greg rubbed his eyes, trying to massage away the bone-deep exhaustion that had settled into his body. His knuckles were split and bruised from the night's work. Each throb of pain reminded him of every punch he'd thrown into solid armor, every guard he'd taken down while trying not to kill them - though now, knowing what they'd done, he wondered if mercy had been the right choice.
Probably not, he thought, watching the village slowly come to life around him. But I'm tired of death. So fucking tired.
Ash padded over, pressing his warm bulk against Greg's leg. The cub's snout twitched, still smelling of smoke from earlier when some of the braver (or dumber) guards had tried to rush them. One burst of flame had been enough to change their minds about being heroes.
Greg's mouth settled into a grim line as he watched the sun climb higher. Everything felt heavy - his body, his thoughts, even the air itself seemed to press down on him with the weight of what he'd discovered in this town.
I can't believe it, he thought, but the truth was, he could.
He absolutely could.
The inn's common room stank of blood and puke, the kind of smell that burned the back of Greg's throat and made his empty stomach roll. The lantern on the wall behind him sputtered, throwing weird shadows across the floor where the guards lay moaning. Their captain had passed out an hour ago, his face a mess of purple bruises, probably from the forced march here as much as the beating.
Good. Serves the bastard right.
Greg's back ached from standing so long, muscles wound tight with tension as he stared down at the mess of bound men scattered across the wooden floor. His knuckles throbbed, split and bloody from hours of this - from fists meeting flesh, from questions that went nowhere. But it wasn't over.
Not yet.
Not until he got answers.
The castellan - Sten - sat tied to a chair in the middle of it all, thick ropes biting into his arms and legs. Greg had made sure they were tight, checking each knot three times
Real tight.
But even after hours of questions, after the yelling and hitting and threats, after watching his men get dragged through the streets, the guy just wouldn't break properly. His face was a mess of bruises, one eye swollen nearly shut, but his good eye kept switching between scared and cocky, like he couldn't decide which mask to wear.
Greg's throat felt like sandpaper. He'd tried everything - screaming until his voice cracked, getting up in Sten's face with spit flying, slapping him, punching him, even squeezing the guy's broken wrist until the bone ground together with a sound that made Greg's stomach turn. All he got were grunts and that same stupid look of defiance, like Sten thought he could still walk away from this.
The wooden floor creaked under Greg's boots as he spun around to face Sten again. His hands were shaking - from exhaustion, from anger, from the magic burning under his skin begging to be let loose - but he kept his voice steady. "I'm done playing."
Sten's split lip curled into an ugly sneer, blood trickling fresh down his chin. "Oh, an' what'll ye do now, boy? Set yer demon bear on me? Kill me?" His accent came out thicker now, all pretense of refinement dropped like a cheap mask. "Aye, ye might if ye keep at it, but lookin' at ye... I doubt ye've got the stones."
The firelight caught the wet shine of blood on Sten's teeth as he spoke. Greg fought back a shudder, growling through clenched teeth, "You're gonna tell me at some point." The words tasted like copper in his mouth, sharp and metallic like the blood in the air. "Who's behind this? Why are these people being arrested?"
Sten's bloody teeth showed as his sneer widened. "Ye think you're some kind of 'ero, boy? Ye know nothin' of 'ow the world works."
Something in Greg snapped.
The magic surged through him like fire as he lunged forward, arm pulled back, stopping with his face inches from Sten's. The Sign of Igni sparked to life in his palm - not just sparks now but real flames, dancing between his fingers like living things, throwing orange light across their faces. The heat made sweat bead on Sten's forehead, dripping down into his wide eyes.
"No more games," Greg hissed, feeling the power pulse through his arm.
The sight of magic - real, wild magic - finally cracked Sten's mask.
His eyes went wide, white showing all around as the flames flickered closer to his skin, close enough that Greg could smell singed hair. "Alright, alright, I'll talk—jus' keep that thing away from me!"
Greg's arm trembled with the effort of keeping the magic contained, but he held his hand steady. The flames cast weird, dancing shadows on Sten's face, making him look older, more scared - more human, which somehow made it worse. Greg could feel the heat building in his palm, knew Sten could feel it too by the way he tried to press himself back into the chair.
"Talk." Greg barely recognized his own voice.
Sten's mouth trembled, eyes darting around the room like a trapped rat looking for escape. The tough guy act had crumbled, replaced by raw fear that made his whole body shake. "What... What can I tell ye?" His throat bobbed as he swallowed hard, adam's apple jumping. "I told ye, boy, I don't make th' orders. It's th' lord, he... he has... certain guests."
Greg's lip curled in disgust, the flames in his hand flaring brighter. "Guests? You think that explains it? What kind of lord has guests that make him arrest innocent people?" He moved his hand closer, watched Sten try to push his head back further into the chair, the wood creaking under him. "I said, talk!"
"Please..." Sten's voice had gone high and thin, almost a whine, sounding almost like the innkeeper from last night. "Ye don't understand. This, it's... I've no choice, lad. They'd—"
Greg cut him off with a sharp laugh that didn't sound like him at all. "Oh, no choice, right. Like you're some helpless bystander, huh?" The flames danced higher as his control slipped, his whole arm shaking now. "C'mon. What's. Going. On?"
Sten's eyes flicked to the unconscious guard captain - still sprawled in the corner like a broken doll - before coming back to Greg. When he spoke, his voice was barely a whisper, cracking with fear. "A man. Comes ridin' every few moons. Not the lord himself, mind ye. A guest. But... but one with power. I don't know his name... but the man... he—he hunts."
Hunts…. HUNTS? Greg's hand shook harder as he struggled to hold back the flames. He watched Sten shrink into himself, words spilling out faster now that they'd started. "Why do you let him do it?" Greg's voice came out quiet, but full of hate. "What... why... why would you do... what in the actual hell is wrong with you?"
The steward's eyes darted to the fire dancing in Greg's palm, his voice breaking into a pathetic whine. "It... it's not me! He makes me do it—holds the power o'er th' keep... don't know who'll replace me if I'm gone… he makes deals with bandits, slavers… all pledges with a greater lord, I've seen 'is books… killin' second sons and skilled fighters of other houses of 'is station with 'em, easy and no blood on 'is hands… the lords a greedy one, ye see." His words came faster now, stumbling over each other as sweat rolled down his temples. "Please, lad. Ye must understand, it's just... orders."
Greg's lip curled as he moved his hand closer until the flames nearly kissed Sten's cheek. The heat made the man's skin glisten in the flickering light, casting weird shadows across the bruises Greg had left earlier. "Orders? You're imprisoning innocent people to be hunted like animals, and all you've got is orders?" His voice cracked with disgust. "You're actually pathetic."
The castellan cringed, tears forming at the corners of his bloodshot eyes.
His gaze jumped between Greg and the unconscious guards on the floor, like he was hoping one of them might wake up and save him. Blood from his split lip had dried in crusty streaks down his chin. He shook his head, drops of sweat flying. "Aye, I'm pathetic as ye say. But I'd be a dead man if I... if I spoke a word... fuck."
"You know what's funny?" Greg let out a harsh laugh that made Sten flinch. "Everyone keeps saying that. 'I'd be dead.' 'They'd kill me.' Like that makes it okay." The flames in his palm flickered higher. "Like being scared makes it alright to hurt people."
Sten's head jerked in a violent twitch as the flames danced closer. "Ye think I wanted this? Ye think I asked for any of it?" His voice cracked, higher pitched now. "I didn't want none of this!"
"Just shut up." Greg's words came out like ice. He could feel the magic humming under his skin, begging to be let loose. The air around them crackled with tension, making the hair on his arms stand up. "Who is he? And don't say 'just a man.'" He leaned in until their faces were inches apart, keeping his voice low. "One more lie, and I'll burn you, I swear."
A strangled noise escaped the castellan's throat as his breathing turned quick and shallow. "I—" His Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed. "It's another lord. Doesn't live here, doesn't rule these lands. But he... comes by, I swear... with his men. With... animals. Trained. For sport."
The blond leaned in, a thought flickering into his mind with the man's mention of deals with bandits and greater lords. "…what does any of this have to do with the Boltons?"
Sten paled… visibly, face white as paper as his eyes narrowed like pinpricks. The boy stared, waiting for an answer but when the castellan's lip trembled silently, he sighed to himself. Told me all I need to know, I guess.
It seemed clear as day to everyone in the North that the Boltons were what these people would call 'right bastards' but nobody seemed to ever do anything about them. Blue eyes narrowed, staring at nothing. Must be those fucking Starks, their bosses protecting them or something. He clicked his tongue. Only thing that makes sense.
Greg didn't move his hand, watching as the man tremble like wet paper against the fire roiling in his palm. The rope creaked as Sten tried to lean away from it. "Fuck… fine. Why didn't you stop the lord then?"
The castellan's mouth trembling only increased. His eyes darted to the door, then back to Greg's face. "Because—" His words faltered before color returned to his face, rage granting him some measure of courage.
"Because he'd gut me and string me up, leave my body for the carrion birds! You think I wanted this?" The words burst out of him in a desperate rush. Spittle flew from his lips as he spoke. "I was never given a choice! Just... a position, an order, and I obey. Ye can't imagine it, lad. The things he does... the way he hunts them..."
"I can imagine just fine," Greg said, his voice dropping even colder. He watched Sten squirm against the ropes, as Greg lowered his hand slightly. The lantern behind them sputtered, making shadows dance. "I saw what you did to those people. You kept them drugged, locked up like animals."
"I—please," the castellan whimpered, eyes locked on the flames flickering over fingers. A tear rolled down his cheek, cutting through grime and dried blood. "Please... don't... don't. I'll tell ye everything—everything I know!"
Greg stared him down, jaw clenched tight. The guards on the floor had gone quiet, probably passed out from pain or fear. Good. "You're the reason people suffer in this place. You get that, don't you? You're the reason."
His head shook with barely contained rage. "All of this, it's you! People like you! You're the reason things are shitty," the words ripped out of his throat as he grabbed Sten's collar with his free hand, "you just do whatever the fuck you want for as long as you can get away with it and then get mad when it doesn't go your way!"
He yanked the man forward until their noses almost touched, the chair legs scraping against the floor with a sound like nails on wood. "You think that's fair, huh?! What's wrong with you?! PLAYING WITH PEOPLE'S LIVES!"
The castellan tried to turn away, his whole body shaking so hard the chair rattled against the floorboards, but his eyes kept getting pulled back to the flames like they were magnetic. "I... I..."
The man's eyes rolled back and his head lolled forward.
Then Greg caught it - that sharp, acrid smell hitting his nose, making his stomach turn.
He blinked, stumbling backward as he realized what had happened. A dark stain spread across the front of Sten's pants as the castellan slumped in his chair.
The unconscious man had pissed himself.
"Jesus f-fuck, dude!"
Brockton Bay was bad, Greg knew that.
His home city had its horrors and its monsters and its evils, but at least they made sense. Villains were villains, gang members were gang members, rules were rules. Even the worst of them followed some kind of code, twisted as it was. The ABB stuck to their territory, the Empire to theirs, and both of them played their parts like it was all some twisted game of cops and robbers. Even the drug dealers had rules about who they'd sell to.
But Westeros was different.
Four months.
Four months since he'd inexplicably woken up in this brutal, medieval world, and every third day felt like a new nightmare. Back home, evil wore a mask, it showed off and bragged in battles between other people with powers. It was showy, flashy, theatrical, sure.
The villains wanted attention, wanted everyone to know who they were and what they could do and were proud about it. They had names, costumes, even catchphrases sometimes.
But it was predictable. Fuck, it made sense.
Here, the darkness was just part of daily life.
A normal person could be just as dangerous as any supervillain with a knife to the back or some crazy plot to use you for their own end. Just crazy cruelty and betrayal for the smallest gains, like it was nothing special.
Like it was just another Tuesday.
No grand schemes, no world domination plots - just people hurting other people because it could make their life a little better.
Because nobody was stopping them.
The guards last night... Greg's stomach turned just thinking about it. Back home, even Lung wouldn't have... well, maybe Lung would have, he admitted to himself. But at least the dragon lord would have made a big show of it, given people a chance to run.
Here, they just locked people up in the dark and waited for some lord's "guest" to hunt them down like animals.
And nobody said anything. Nobody did anything.
Greg scratched Ash's ears slowly, the bear cub letting out a little grunt of appreciation. The morning sun felt too bright, too cheerful for what had happened last night. His nostrils still smelled the bitter air of the inn, all the puke and blood mixing with the usual village stink of mud and animals. All around them, villagers shuffled through the muddy street, their faces showing everything Greg felt twisted up inside him.
Some cast fearful glances his way as they hurried past. Others looked down in shame, like they could hide from what they'd let happen in their own town. A few—mostly the older ones—met his eyes with anger, like this was somehow his fault. Like he was the bad guy for exposing their precious guards.
Like things were better when everyone just pretended not to notice people disappearing. A woman hurried past with her shawl pulled tight, whispering to her friend about demons and magic. Another group huddled by the well, pointing at the inn where moans still drifted out from the beaten guards inside, while kids peeked around corners before their parents yanked them back and away.
Greg rolled his eyes and froze again, blue eyes going crossed as he felt his soul rubber band in a fraction of a second, another odd little skill dropping into his head like remembering a song he never heard before. Huh.
The blue-eyed-boy glanced down at this green tunic and, after a moment's thought, waved his hand over it. In a flash of blue light, the color and pattern of his tunic changed completely, going from a thick deep green to a less constraining bright blue with white embroidering, his green cap vanishing to nowhere.
Oddly enough, the scarf around his neck stayed the same blue. Cool, quick change.
A soft shuffling of feet drew Greg's attention as an older woman approached, her weathered hands wringing the edge of her apron. Behind her, a younger man - probably her son by the look of him - stood with his cap clutched between calloused fingers.
"M'lord," she began, her voice trembling slightly. Greg fought back a wince at the title. "I... we wanted tae thank ye. Our Mira, she..." The woman's voice caught. "She went missin' three moons past. Found 'er in those cells, we did. Still breathin', thank the gods."
Greg nodded slowly, exhaustion making his movements feel sluggish. "Is she... is she okay?"
"Aye," the son spoke up, his northern burr thick with emotion. "Better than most. Whatever ye did to those guards..." He swallowed hard. "Well, some might say it were harsh, but I say they got what they deserved."
More villagers drifted over as the woman and her son spoke, forming a small crowd. An old man with a face like weathered leather stepped forward, leaning heavily on a gnarled walking stick.
"Them travelers they took," he said, voice rough as stone. "We all knew. Saw 'em brought in chains through town. But what could we do?" His pale eyes met Greg's, sharp despite his age. "When ye speak up, ye disappear. Or worse."
One by one they came forward, each with a story of the guards' cruelty. Stolen wages. Broken bones. Threats and violence wrapped up in defense of the lord's will. And always, always, the travelers who vanished into the castle dungeons, never to be seen again.
"Been too afraid to even look at them wrong," a broad-shouldered blacksmith rumbled, his massive arms crossed over his chest. "But ye showed us something last night." His eyes flicked to where some of the older villagers still watched with disapproval. "Showed us that even men who think themselves mighty can fall."
A young woman clutching a market basket stepped forward. "They killed me husband's friend last spring," she said softly. "Poor man were just passing through from another village, but they said 'e was a thief they were looking for. Beat him to death in the street when 'e tried to run, they did. Called it 'keeping the peace.'" She drew in a shaky breath. "Thank ye, m'lord. Thank ye for showing them justice still exists."
Greg felt something in his chest loosen slightly. The exhaustion still pulled at him, the memory of the night's violence still burned behind his eyes, but... maybe it had been worth it.
Maybe sometimes you had to break things to fix them.
"Ye've got the old magic in ye," an ancient grandmother whispered, reaching out with trembling fingers to touch his sleeve. "Like the tales. The ones about heroes who'd come when the North needed 'em most."
Greg almost laughed at that, but held it back. Yeah, no, lady, I'm from Maine. Still, their gratitude felt real. Genuine. It didn't wash away the darkness of what he'd discovered, but it helped.
A little.
The crowd began to thin as people drifted back to their daily tasks, but their words lingered, warming him more than the weak northern sun ever could. For all the horror he'd found in those dungeons, at least he'd done something about it. At least he'd shown these people that someone would stand up to the darkness.
Then a different sound cut through the morning air - the plucking of lute strings...
"In a cell dark and deep…"
As the last villager walked back, the blond blinked as the sound of strings caught his attention. He raised his head, squinting against the sunlight as he caught sight of a face that was at least slightly familiar through the moving crowd.
"No, deeper…" Oren Snowlute walked down the path of the main road, his boots leaving prints in the mud. His clothes were still stained and damp from the dungeons, patches showing where moisture hadn't dried. The young bard didn't seem bothered by it now, and hadn't really seemed all that bothered back then either, which was weird for someone who'd been drugged and locked up for about a month.
The guy was just weird like that or something.
"Something colder—aye, where cold winds wail," Oren muttered, brows knitting together. His fingers danced over the lute strings, instrument held close like it was made of gold. Hell, the bard had almost cried when they'd found it in the captain's room.
The bard trudged along, half-mumbling, half-singing, fingers plucking a loose tune as if feeling it out. "A lad... lad with... no past, no kin... no past... nothin' 'bout that, aye..." He strummed louder, leaning into the notes as he walked closer, lost in his own world.
Greg sighed, figuring he needed another distraction anyway. "Oren!"
The bard's head snapped up, long dark hair thrown back from his face. His eyes weren't glazed anymore - the drugs had worn off hours ago. "Ah, my lord!" His brown eyes lit up and he ran up towards Greg, way too energetic for someone who'd spent weeks in a dungeon.
Greg sighed, raking a hand down his face. "Not your lord."
"Ah," Oren waggled a finger, grinning like this was all some kind of game. "And yet that's not your choice to make."
The younger teenager raised an eyebrow. "Think it kinda is." He sighed, watching more villagers hurry past, some pulling their children closer as they walked. "Doesn't matter. What are you doing now? I thought you'd be getting rest."
"Bah," the bard replied with a dramatic wave of his hand. "Rest? In a town of scoundrels and brigands?" He raised his voice on the last part, making several nearby villagers flinch. Some turned away in shame, while others shot dark looks their way. "No, my lord. I have too much to do to simply rest." He paused, thin eyebrows raised like he was waiting for Greg to take the bait.
"Like what?" Greg asked, already regretting it.
"Creating a ballad in your name, first of all," Oren announced triumphantly, as if this was the greatest news ever.
Oh God no, Greg thought with a frown. He blinked as Oren looked almost affronted, the bard's smile half-open.
"I said that out loud, didn't I?" he asked, watching Oren's expression shift.
"That ye did, my lord," the bard answered back, somehow making even that sound musical.
"But trust me, you will love it." Greg opened his mouth to say otherwise only to freeze at the sight of a group of villagers walking his way.
If it was only that, he wouldn't have been as confused or interested. But the person they held between their arms caught his attention.
It was a guard, another one. His uniform was muddy and torn, face bruised under his hood like he'd put up a fight. The villagers holding him - four big men with hard faces - didn't look much better.
What? Greg blinked, rising to his feet as Ash perked up beside him. Why are they bringing me another guard?
"M'lord," one of them, a tall man in the front with a beard full of gray, said as the men behind him forced the guard to his knees in the mud. "We caught this 'un here tryin' to flee by the break of dawn."
Greg stared at them, at the guard, at the growing crowd of onlookers. "...uh, thanks, guys?"
The villager shifted his weight, thick arms crossed over his chest. His eyes flicked over to the inn where sounds of moaning still drifted out, then back to Greg. "Aye. We would have brought him before but eh..." He swallowed hard, face paling slightly. "Ye seemed a bit... busy."
Fair enough. Greg nodded slowly, acknowledging the point. His muscles still ached from last night, and his head throbbed with every movement. One more guard to deal with wasn't exactly what he wanted right now, but he wasn't going to turn down help either. The morning sun felt too bright against his tired eyes, making the headache worse.
He watched the guard struggle weakly against the villagers' grip, noting how the man's uniform was caked with mud and torn in places. Probably from trying to run through the woods in the dark. Blood stained the chest piece in places where branches had caught him. Serves him right.
"Aye, we've seen this one around the castellan and lord before," the tall villager spoke up again, his thick beard flecked with gray. His weathered hands were stained with dirt and what looked like dried blood, knuckles split from fighting. "Hasn't been in the village long much. Thought ye might have need of him."
Greg stood up straighter, suddenly more alert. A normal guard spending time with the castellan would be one thing, but a new one? That was different. That was interesting. That was suspicious. Especially after everything he had found in those dungeons, and all the secrets he forced out of Sten.
His eyes narrowed as he studied the guard's dirty armor, the way the man kept his head down, shoulders hunched like he was trying to make himself smaller. Something about this wasn't right. The back of Greg's neck prickled with warning, that same instinct that had kept him alive these past months screaming at him.
"Take his hood off," Greg ordered, then added, "helmet too." His voice came out harder than he meant it to, but he was too tired to care.
The villagers moved quickly, eager to please. At least something good came from last night, Greg thought grimly.
Nothing like finding out your leaders were hunting innocent people to make you switch sides. One burly man with arms like tree trunks grabbed the guard's head, thick fingers tangling in the hood as he yanked it back. Another pulled off the helmet with hands that looked used to hard work, callused and strong.
Greg opened his mouth, ready to start asking questions, but the words died in his throat. His jaw dropped as recognition hit him like a punch to the gut. Beside him, Ash's growl turned deadly, orange sparks dancing between the bear cub's teeth as the little bear sensed his master's shock.
"Well, 'ello, friend Greg," said a painfully familiar voice. The man smiled up at him through blood and bruises, that same friendly expression he'd worn right before stabbing Greg in the back. His face was battered but his eyes still held that same calculating look, like he was measuring him up even now.
Dael.
10k Words - 100 GP
Roll:Vanity's Reward[Madoka Magica: Wraith Timeline] {Illusion} (100 GP) -Don't like your new look? That's alright. You can now change your Magical Girl form or any clothes you're wearing with a wave of your hand and a very tiny amount of magical energy being spent. No matter what design you pick for yourself, it will always look good on you.
Grimoire Points: 750