A butcher with a practiced hand will be able to bring the edge of a cleaver down at the weakest part of a joint. Whether it be neatly quartering a dodo or removing a lava toad's leg at the hip, the art of preparing food is equal parts knowledge, precision and execution. Unfortunately for Inspector Prauvaulient, Warren Castille never spent time in a kitchen.
Thwack.
The edge of the butcher's blade came down an ilm or two further to the right than intended. Instead of catching the elezen's hand at the thinnest part of the wrist, the metal bit down into flesh and muscle and latched into the bone.
"Clumsy. Gonna need two for this one." He wrenched the metal free as a torrent of blood spurted from the wound and held it aloft, considering.
Thwack.
**
The initial struggle took only moments. The Inspector, for all of his bandying about and self-importance, was unconditioned to carry out his own fights. He was also completely unsuspecting that he would be accosted by a dead man mere moments after returning from a successful expedition.
As soon as the door latched shut the shadows came alive. The inspector was hauled by his collar onto his wonderfully expensive desk, furnished by the Holy See of course, and he was pinned before he could do much more than stutter. There was the faint hum as the silencing wards kicked in; Prauvaulient had always felt secrets were worth keeping and spared no expense - of Ishgard's - to be certain his domain was secure. The thought didn't dawn on him on account of the first knife being driven through his left hand, sinking into the wood.
His hunter reached to his belt and removed another knife. There were words spoken but they were unheard. The inspector's screams began in earnest when his head was wrenched to the side and the second knife bit into his ear. He felt a tugging and a tearing and then everything sounded strange. Flatter. His voice cut off, the surprise of the situation overruling the pain coursing from his palm and the hole in the side of his head.
Prauvaulient's eyes fixed onto the man's hand. It was holding his ear and he fought the urge to laugh madly, completely and utterly mad at how ridiculous the scenario was. He had just returned from delivering yet another to Ryuuga's camp. He was furthering the line of Ishgard's heroes with the blood of the unworthy. Making weapons. The brief moment passed as the adrenaline spike dipped and the gravity of the situation returned with all the weight of Coerthas' snow and ice.
He looked to his attacker and saw a ghost. The fool knight who he had left to die in the snow. There was single-minded fury in his eyes and he brought his face close to the elezen's, leaning in the direction of his remaining ear and speaking, too furious was he to whisper.
"I'm going to take everything from you."
Prauvaulient opened his mouth to scream and sputtered as the potion splashed onto his face, the bottle rammed into his mouth and down his throat. He gulped desperately at the liquid, his only options compliance or drowning. For all his muster, Prauvaulient feared death.
He felt an aching itch on the side of his head as the wound closed. His ear was still gone, he could tell, and pain shot from his wrist as flesh attempted to suture itself around cold steel. He turned his face away from the highlander, letting his vision fall to one of the bookshelves on the opposite wall.
Once he was able to count the number of potions that were stored there, he was able to scream once more.
Thwack.
The edge of the butcher's blade came down an ilm or two further to the right than intended. Instead of catching the elezen's hand at the thinnest part of the wrist, the metal bit down into flesh and muscle and latched into the bone.
"Clumsy. Gonna need two for this one." He wrenched the metal free as a torrent of blood spurted from the wound and held it aloft, considering.
Thwack.
**
The initial struggle took only moments. The Inspector, for all of his bandying about and self-importance, was unconditioned to carry out his own fights. He was also completely unsuspecting that he would be accosted by a dead man mere moments after returning from a successful expedition.
As soon as the door latched shut the shadows came alive. The inspector was hauled by his collar onto his wonderfully expensive desk, furnished by the Holy See of course, and he was pinned before he could do much more than stutter. There was the faint hum as the silencing wards kicked in; Prauvaulient had always felt secrets were worth keeping and spared no expense - of Ishgard's - to be certain his domain was secure. The thought didn't dawn on him on account of the first knife being driven through his left hand, sinking into the wood.
His hunter reached to his belt and removed another knife. There were words spoken but they were unheard. The inspector's screams began in earnest when his head was wrenched to the side and the second knife bit into his ear. He felt a tugging and a tearing and then everything sounded strange. Flatter. His voice cut off, the surprise of the situation overruling the pain coursing from his palm and the hole in the side of his head.
Prauvaulient's eyes fixed onto the man's hand. It was holding his ear and he fought the urge to laugh madly, completely and utterly mad at how ridiculous the scenario was. He had just returned from delivering yet another to Ryuuga's camp. He was furthering the line of Ishgard's heroes with the blood of the unworthy. Making weapons. The brief moment passed as the adrenaline spike dipped and the gravity of the situation returned with all the weight of Coerthas' snow and ice.
He looked to his attacker and saw a ghost. The fool knight who he had left to die in the snow. There was single-minded fury in his eyes and he brought his face close to the elezen's, leaning in the direction of his remaining ear and speaking, too furious was he to whisper.
"I'm going to take everything from you."
Prauvaulient opened his mouth to scream and sputtered as the potion splashed onto his face, the bottle rammed into his mouth and down his throat. He gulped desperately at the liquid, his only options compliance or drowning. For all his muster, Prauvaulient feared death.
He felt an aching itch on the side of his head as the wound closed. His ear was still gone, he could tell, and pain shot from his wrist as flesh attempted to suture itself around cold steel. He turned his face away from the highlander, letting his vision fall to one of the bookshelves on the opposite wall.
Once he was able to count the number of potions that were stored there, he was able to scream once more.
![[Image: yEROfKO.png]](http://i.imgur.com/yEROfKO.png)
