This was disturbing. Ondolemar was balancing on the edge of a metaphoric sword, cold sweat over his back making him shiver. New orders. On one side of this decree, which he now had read four times, his physical body protesting against it; on the other side his mind telling him that justice was justice, whoever it might decapitate in the process. Hryssa Red-Spear, thane of Markarth, Vlindrel Hall, Talos worshipper. It was just one name among others, jotted down with just as little care and interest as the names before and those who followed, and still it was there as if written in red, embossed and underlined. To be realistic, how many women were there in Markarth who answered to the name Hryssa? And if there by any chance were more than one woman named Rhyssa in Markarth, how many of them had business with the jarl from time to time? All the proof was there and he really didn’t want to see it.
Yet, still he hoped that he was wrong, but if he had been fully convinced by his own hopes, he wouldn’t have left his guards at Understone Keep that evening as he walked all the stairs up to Vlindrel Hall. An interesting address; both secluded and central, the sounds of the city not as deafening, the foul smells not as overwhelming and the view actually quite spectacular. From up here Markarth could be an unpolished gemstone. And as with every other home in Markarth, there was yet another heavy brass door at the top of the stairs; unwelcoming, as if even the door itself was eager to keep whatever was hidden inside to itself. Blood and silver was running deep; deeper than the bloodlines of men and deeper than the ores in Cidhna Mine. Ondolemar took a deep breath, straightened his back and collected his expressions before knocking on the door. It didn’t take long before a huge man opened it, filling the whole entrance with his presence. An intimidating face, tattooed and scarred, bulging muscles - as much a Nord as a man could be.
Re: What happens in Markarth stays in Markarth 11
Hryssa Red-Spear, thane of Markarth, Vlindrel Hall, Talos worshipper. It was just one name among others, jotted down with just as little care and interest as the names before and those who followed, and still it was there as if written in red, embossed and underlined.
To be realistic, how many women were there in Markarth who answered to the name Hryssa? And if there by any chance were more than one woman named Rhyssa in Markarth, how many of them had business with the jarl from time to time? All the proof was there and he really didn’t want to see it.
Yet, still he hoped that he was wrong, but if he had been fully convinced by his own hopes, he wouldn’t have left his guards at Understone Keep that evening as he walked all the stairs up to Vlindrel Hall. An interesting address; both secluded and central, the sounds of the city not as deafening, the foul smells not as overwhelming and the view actually quite spectacular. From up here Markarth could be an unpolished gemstone. And as with every other home in Markarth, there was yet another heavy brass door at the top of the stairs; unwelcoming, as if even the door itself was eager to keep whatever was hidden inside to itself. Blood and silver was running deep; deeper than the bloodlines of men and deeper than the ores in Cidhna Mine.
Ondolemar took a deep breath, straightened his back and collected his expressions before knocking on the door. It didn’t take long before a huge man opened it, filling the whole entrance with his presence. An intimidating face, tattooed and scarred, bulging muscles - as much a Nord as a man could be.