A thud, a crash, the sharp clang of metal. The painfully loud sound of the torso of armour hitting the floor pierced the the night's silence, almost shaking the room in the process. Gloves, boots, cloak, shirt, all followed suit, dropped carelessly to the floor with a chaotic order that saw it all relegated to a corner of the room in a single pile. For most the sight would be irreverent, Blacksteel armour, Imperial colours, the finest leathers, all strewn to the floor with such negligent disposition. No care was taken but no love was lost for Gerold Ravenstad-Krier. To some it would represent honour, duty, servitude, they would hang it proudly, the Imperial Guard armour in pride of place for all to see, but not Gerold. Armour was armour, clothes were clothes. No amount of gold, fine metal, silks or trimming could change the point they served and thus whether it be Blacksteel or rags, it belonged on the floor and out of the way.
His hand plunged into the still water of the bathtub, sending fierce ripples in all directions, ruining once more the tranquility of the night with a veiny hand. The forearm was drawn back, the water readied to settle, but two feet and the hulk of the man's lower half thrust down onto the surface, forcing water to escape the bath's walls at both sides as Gerold moved himself into a comfortable position. A clean bath was made dirty in an instant, the black grub seeping from the man's skin, falling and crumbling off his knees and arms, clouding the water like a poison.
Peace finally but slowly returned to the room, it had almost waited politely, hanging in the air for Gerold to finish spoiling its pacific calm before it fell once more on the moonlight coated castle. Only the gentle sway of the trees outside and the light flicker of a candle could be heard if one were to listen quietly. The peacefulness of the keep remained undisturbed for a moment as the Winter blew a bitter breeze through the open window at the foot of the bathtub, entering the warm room with an unwelcome frigidity that caused Gerold's shoulders to be engulfed with hot steam, rising into the room as if the man had been the victim of a white and painless fire that forked and raged from his skin. The frosty gust of air settled, sucking the flame from the candles atop the windowsill to turn the room a deathly black, but the candle would be its final victim as the cold wind retreated into the night. Only the moon lit the room, casting an eery white streak from the window across the floor and the piled armour, drawing a strange and unconfined pattern of obscure shadows dancing across the carpet that surrounded the bathtub. To some, the dark and cold breath of the night extinguishing the warm glow from the room could be deemed an omen, to Gerold, a minor inconvenience.
The peace was once again disturbed, this time by a distant rasp from the hallway outside. It was not unlike the aged keep of Beurg Eleng to creek and groan at night by itself. Whilst not under the weight of a boot, Gerold often mused that the castle floorboards were left weighted with the heavy sins and slights that the Ravenstad family had committed against one another, the sheer moral degradation of the dysfunctional family stalking the halls as if a ghost in search of acknowledgement. It was enough to lift the eyelid of Gerold's left eye, a mix of intrigue, paranoia and caution coursing from the man as his eyeball rolled slowly to the right to observe the door. Its hinges remained bolted with iron, the latch lay in place, nothing had changed, he remained alone.
The wind picked up once more, trickling into the room from the hallway, crawling under the door and from beneath the old floorboards. The wind carried with it a whisper, a familiar sound, an echo of a voice. As if the whistle of the wind had been a spoken word from the black corners of the room, Gerold sprung up, sending water crashing from the bath as he twisted his large frame, clasping his fingers around the edge until the blood was gone from his knuckles. The frantic sloshing of the bath, now a black ocean of dirt and grub moved in tandem with Gerold's eyes, swaying left to right as he gazed from one pitch black corner to next. As the water settled so did Gerold, the man sure of his isolation, comforting himself with the assurance that his mind was playing tricks on him. He let out a soft snort of amusement, picturing the scared figure he could have been made out to be if someone were to walk in on him. His torso, held high above the water by his enormous arms, slowly twisted back to the front as his whole body slipped effortlessly back into the warm water. His eyes shut once more, his hands sunk beneath the surface.
There was no voice, there was no one, it was a trick, a mistaken sound, nothing more. Gerold's calmed exterior only concealed the anxiety that filled his mind for the voice was all too familiar. A voice he feared, respected, one he had once cowered from, one whose low growl carried disdain and scorn. But it was just the wind.
Besides, Percy was dead.
