Hector- Torture

Hector’s left fist rose slowly, his dark robe falling away to reveal gnarled, black flesh. He flicked it open as if releasing a trapped butterfly from his hand, sending his brother’s vile racing on its way toward the duchess. He watched as the smoky phantom, visible only to Hector, swirled around her, circling like a shark around its prey, awaiting his command. He flung his hand forward, the Vincent-vile raking the Bearlady’s face as it rushed past. As Hector’s arm came back the other way, it struck Freya once more, the chair she sat on rocked forward onto its front legs, threatening to bring her crashing face-first to the ground. Ibal took a step forward, making to grab the seat just as it clattered back to the stone-flagged floor.

Hector breathed hard, noticing that the pain in his head had lifted while his brother’s vile was at work. The vile wasn’t content unless it was put to use. Torture and murder were its pleasure, and it could never get enough of either. It sickened Hector that the spirit had such a hold. While the Boarlord was ultimately in command of the vile, it seemed to be growing in confidence of late. The sleepwalking, the silences, the headaches; they were all connected to Vincent, and Hector feared what might come next.

He looked up, Freya’s cries bringing him out of his daze. Her head snapped back and forth, the spectral killer continuing to attack, a tornado of hatred that whipped and whirled about her, lashing out indiscriminately and tearing at her flesh. Hector snapped his black fingers, calling the vile back to heel. It ignored him.

“Vincent!” he shouted, tearing his black hand through the air. Reluctantly, the vile ceased its barrage of blows, snaking back to Hector and coiling around his shoulders. Hector shivered as he heard the phantom snicker.

“Your Grace,” he said. “The Wyrmstaff: where is it?”

B5 P2 C3