William walked into the barracks, his face still devoid of emotion. Which, to those who knew him better, was a sign that they should listen to what he says and not to screw around.
"John, I want you to go and smith me a brand with the Vagun Old Northlandic rune on it and bring me a bottle of Lonemine Whisky.""Err...what are you lighting on fire, sir?"
"I'm not lighting anything on fire John, unless you wish to volunteer. I'm going to drink it. I'll be in my office. No one is to disturb me tonight.""Yes, sir."
William entered his office and slammed the door behind him. A moment later the sound of his desk smashing against the wall of the office filled the barracks.
. . .
John politely knocked, before turning on his heels and leaving as quickly as possible. He had left by the door a cheap iron brand and a large bottle of Lonemine whisky. William opened the door and grabbed both. He put the brand into his fireplace, now burning merrily, fueled by the broken chunks of his desk, and gazed out over Polca. His new city. One gained by lies and with a silver tongue. Instead of cold steel and truth.
It made him sick, but perhaps that was just the Whisky he was drinking on an empty stomach.
He downed half of the bottle, almost puked as he tasted the burnt wood and coal that was the special taste of Lonemine, then downed the other half and retched again.
With no regret in his eyes he pulled the brand out of the fireplace, then slipped off the glove that covered the marked hand.
He closed his eyes and inhaled, before forcing the red hot brand down on the Hatcur tattoo. His other hand clenched at the metal as the smell of burnt flesh- a smell that William knew all too well- wafted up from the contact between skin and burning metal.
He pulled the brand up when the pain rushed pass the cloudiness caused by the Lonemine Whisky and threw it against the wall.