Halakrin watched. Outwardly impassive. Inwardly indifferent, he was neither enamoured nor repulsed by the scene in front of him. He did not care for the dreams of Avalen, and held little but disdain for the one in front of him now, being beaten mercilessly to death.
Though it would have suffered regardless of the information it yielded the scant intelligence which the dream offered had driven the Lord into a towering rage which bordered on the berserk. The lords hands were locked in a choking vice around the weasels bloody neck as he lifted the creature from its feet and smashed it repeatedly against the wall of the chamber.
The gibbering high pitched begging slowly faded as the weasels grey matter splattered across the room. Despite the array of implements on offer and the torturers willing to use them the Lord preferred the hands on approach, and it was said that his hands could cause more pain than any blade. With the gentlest caress he could elicit screams deep from the soul.
When he'd finished the limp corpse fell to the floor. No one spoke, for a few moments the Lord leaned against a wall, blood pooling around his iron boots.
When he turned he was smiling broadly. Pieces of the dead dream fell from his antlers as he walked over to where Halakrin stood.
“Yes?” was all the Lord said in conversational tones as he started to wipe the blood from his broad torso.
“My Lord” said Halakrin bowing low “Word has reached us from the chambers, the jackal is on the move and he has the dreamer with him.”
It was impossible to read the Lords flaming eyes as he dissected the information. “Ready the ninth, we leave at once,” said the Lord. Halakrin acknowledged the order. As they made to leave several slaves moved to the body of the dream.
“Leave him for the rats” barked the Lord causing the slaves to scurry back into the shadows. As Halakrin slithered after the Lord he spoke “Might I enquire as to our destination My Lord?”.