[center][h3][color=silver]Arecel Stone[/color][/h3][/center]

The stone almost seemed black, with the windowless darkness overwhelming, even stifling the warm light from the scented candles. There may have been rats, the source of the absent skittering in the shadows, but one would not say for certain. There was a rough wood table to the side, though almost pointedly devoid of tools or implements that could come to rest on it fittingly. And in the center of the room, there was a man on a sturdy woman chair, and a woman kneeling before him…

“How is the water? Come on, don’t be troubling…let me see?” Driving her hands into the first pail of water, the chunks of ice thunked dully at the wood as she reached to the feet. Cold, like a carcass, but still alive as the man bound to the seat, which was bolted to the floor. It wasn’t entirely numb either, turning her face up to see the man’s eye widen at her off touch, fingers stroking along the wrinkles of the water soaked toes. If she had not told him outright of her intent to spill his guts, is the water wasn’t freezing…this might have been strangely erotic, having a dark haired beauty wash one’s feet…

Bound, but why was he gagged, if she intended some form of interrogation? Why soak his feet in cold water? Pulling her hand from the water to scoot forward, the woman quite suddenly rested her head on the man’s knee, her black hair spilled along his leg like ink, and letting out a sigh like a child might when in the comfortable presence of an attentive parent, “You are a traitor, Jarak Pryor. Trying to steal a Lady from her home, and away with you to serve the wrong heir to the throne. I know you helped Harrold Royce leave before you were caught…I know…”

Making a breathy sound, her lips grazed the material of his trousers, and the heat of her breath seeped through, “Such disgrace…so.much…” Pulling herself away, she gave him a small finger wave, returning her attentions back to his submerged feet. Long strands of hair tucked behind an ear, hand pulling a pale, cold foot to rest on the edge of the pail…the woman giggling quiet, as if afraid to wake something, as she reached under the skirts of her dress. She pulled out a dagger, blade shining and hilt made of some sort of bone. Humming, as she touched the side of the man’s foot, held the dagger, heard him screaming into his gag…

Tracing her finger along a particularly interesting wrinkle of the cold foot, “Each wrinkle had a tale to tell. Not many would care to know what I do, that this foot had been soaking for almost a day, taken care not to blacken at the ice…I can like this,” Bringing the dagger to the start of the wrinkled skin, she sliced along, skinning the smell section slowly, “I like smooth flesh better…but the rends once this warms, dries...they will be most interesting as well…”

[b]Bloody Gate[/b]

With little difficulty, the usual falcon had been found at it's perch. Wrapping a piece of leather around the scroll and holding it out, at first the bird seemed as if to just perch on the length of it, but after a moment it's wings spread meaningfully before it was let to go off on it's own. From the Bloody Gate to the Eyrie in a fraction of the time a raven might, still, for a while they had been left waiting. The same one returned with a much shorter message, and the gate was raised for the Tully entourage. The blue and silver Arryn banners on the structure flapped as some of the stillness was broken by a fae wind. Though not all were familiar with the Vale, it did seem quite noticeable with the numbers…guarded. Five hundred was the number to hold the gate easily; any army coming at the gate in full force would be like try to stick one’s finger in a meat grinder.

There were even some soldiers patrolling the road in the Vale, and passage widen but still narrow. Midway through, a lone rider on a horse would ride out to them. A woman with long black hair…the dark blue skirts of her dress fluttered in the wind, and the matching petticoat seemed warm enough, the colors recognizably represented her House. Her head was raised high, though eyes shied away from others in a demure fashion, she seemed to be curious, “I bid you good day, my lord. I am...Arecel Stone, here to welcome you to the Vale.” Turning her horse around, her back to them, to lead them, “It would please me if you would follow along to the Eyrie. You must be parched, hungry, tired…ale, fresh valley fruit, bread and salt have been prepared.”