Ramsay shrugged off his leather jacket as Skinner followed him silently through the threshold, turning on the lights and closing the door. They were in an abandoned warehouse of some sort at the edge of town; ragged breathing and footsteps being the only sounds to breach the heavy silence. The pair looked strange together -- Ramsay appeared so slight and boyish beside Skinner's hulking frame and craggy features that if one didn't know better, they'd assume Skinner was the dangerous one.
The man bound to the steel saltire was hardly recognisable now, and it was downright impossible to guess the man’s age, or whether he had ever been handsome or plain. Strips of skin hung from his face, the exposed flesh already festering with the beginnings of gangrene. The concrete floor was stained brick red with old blood, and Ramsay sneered at his captive before stepping up to a little surgical steel table beside the saltire.
Though the man's eyes had swollen nearly shut, they stayed riveted to the collection of skinning knives laid out on the table. The different sized and shaped blades glinted menacingly as Ramsay held each one up to the light. Finally, he settled on a small, curved blade.
"Do you know what Ling Chi is?" Ramsay murmured, bringing the knife up to his eyes, examining the glint in the blade. He paused, as if waiting for an answer, but continued. "It's an old Chinese method of torture, you see. They immobilise the victim, they take a sharp knife, and they slice thin hunks of meat off the body, kind of like sandwich meat."
His laughter was childlike, almost, with no hints of remorse or malice. He laughed like he was chatting with an old, dearly beloved friend.
"The Chinese practised it as a punishment. It was believed that the victim would no longer be whole after death, and wouldn't proceed to the afterlife." Ramsay leaned in, a hair's breadth away from his captive, his oyster grey eyes sparkling with sick glee. "But, I think that’s the least of your problems."
Running the sharp edge of the knife along the man's sternum, Ramsay took a few moments to savour the wild fear in his eyes. Unfortunately, he was going to have to make this quick. After all, he
did have a funeral to attend. The stainless steel blade finally broke skin and filleted the muscles underneath.
And the man screamed, so loud that even Skinner flinched.
Roose Bolton stepped into the church, icy grey eyes trained straight ahead as he pointedly ignored his bastard son trailing closely behind him. This was the last place Ramsay wanted to be, and it showed. His face was twisted into a scowl as he pulled agitatedly at the collar of his suit, trying to loosen it. The saccharine scent of his cologne was like a miasmic cloud around him -- a clumsy attempt at hiding the stench of blood from his earlier activities. A hot shower had washed off most, if not all of the gore, but the smell of death stuck to his skin like a tattoo.
As Roose moved to pay his respects to the infamous Cersei Lannister, Ramsay began wandering off in a different direction. Rolling his eyes, Ramsay heard his father talking about
how very sorry he was for the woman's loss, and knew that not a single word of what he said was truthful.
Soon enough, Ramsay found himself standing a few feet away from the casket. A quiet snicker escaped from him as he peered into the polished, teak coffin. To be honest, he was actually kind of impressed that they didn't have to get a custom casket built for the fat fuck. But, since it was more than likely no one else shared this sentiment, he kept it to himself.
Ill-concealing a smirk, Ramsay looked over his shoulder and noticed the Starks some distance away. Well, more like the Starks plus one, really. Ned Stark's bastard was there too. Jon, was it? He didn't really peg the Stark patriarch for the cheating type, but it just went to prove that one should never judge a book by its cover. Ramsay spotted the eldest Stark daughter next. She couldn't have been more than eighteen years old, but anyone could see how pretty she was turning out to be. Inheriting her mother's auburn locks and bright, blue eyes, Sansa Stark didn't have the dark, sullen features of a Stark at all.
Deciding that he'd had enough of standing around by himself, Ramsay made to rejoin Roose. As he passed by where the Starks were sat down, Ramsay flashed a crafty little grin at the young redhead, before turning away.
