Thu Dec 31, 2015 6:32 am
The single room was blood.
In Myrkenwood, where the rivers cast up flotsam and driftwood of all sorts - human and otherwise - murder is not an unknown word. Murders of passion, murders made calculated, murders that were nothing more than business for bounty-hunters or criminals alike. There were sadists, those who were cold-blooded, those that were hot-blooded, desiring secret things and a freedom to do what they would, take what they would. These were only the human beasts; it did not account for the many other peoples or creatures that called the Lake and Forest home.
This was not the worst murder, but it was bad enough.
In the tenement rows of the Derry refugees - refugees no longer, but unwilling or unable to return to their war-torn country - a small, one-room cottage was host to such a murder. Hot-blooded, for the victim was flayed most brutally; cold-blooded, for the murderer had been awhile at his work; sadistic, because the murderer had carved most carefully.
The purpose of it had been blood. With surgical precision, the murderer had lifted the skin, brought forth from meat and tendon the arteries and veins. With small, sharp knives he had cut, and cut, and cut again, until like the fine roots of a plant the frayed, flayed remnants of vessels spread, ready to be planted. The heart was untouched, and that much was both mercy and cruelty, for the girl that was victim - a dark, dusky girl - had been kept alive so that every beat of her heart brought blood to the ruin.
No message. No motive. But a doctor's skill.