Snippet #2633115

Weyellin let a small smile appear upon his face for a second, and then it had gone. The Pacifier threw Weyellin a cloth, which he caught without breaking eye-contact with Iaira, which he quickly used to wipe the spit from his face.
"You know, Blackmont, there is a time for honour and there is a time for getting things done quickly and effectively." He moved back and pulled up the comfortable chair Iaira had placed herself in when first entering the room beside her.
"You killed five of my elite, did you not? Sand cannot harm a warrior of Everlast. We hold the strength of the Dragons. You saved no-one."
Weyellin placed Iaira's wounded leg upon his lap and held it there, tightly, his fingers trailing the badly sealed wounds with no care.
"My, these wounds don't look good." He chuckled. "What say we clean them a little, Pacifier?"
The quivering man jumped in excitement and brought a straight iron plank with him to the wall at the back of the room. Pulling a lever as hard as he could, a small opening appeared in the stone, and within it, a furnace. The plank fit with little room to spare, and before long, it was white hot at the tip, ready to cauterize.
"He's done this many times before, Blackmont. He knows what to do to make you beg for our mercy without bringing you close to death."
The man giggled again and brought himself to the General and pointed at the iron bar. The Overseer could feel the heat radiating off of it. It seemed welcoming, but its purpose was far more malicious.
"Oh, come now, don't be shy, Pacifier."
With a teethy grin wide on his sooty face, the Pacifier's eyes widened as he slowly brought the iron bar towards Iaira's leg, eventually sinking it into one of the gashes in her leg, blackening all flesh.