"We found you out of your senses right beside the cunt," Saron muttered, his rough fingers working with surprising gentleness as he wrapped fresh linen tightly around Vilon's swollen hand, he hadn't noticed he had got himself wounded as he smashed down the rock.
He paused to glance over at the corpse, eyes pointing toward the small splashes of crimson pooling at the base of the iron visor, right where Vilon had lastly driven his hunting blade home.
By the time the Hounds had pulled Vilon off him, the man had ceased all breathing. Perhaps he was already dead before the steel sank into his throat, or perhaps the cracked visor had simply left him senseless enough for the final strike. Vilon hoped he was alive when he felt the blade sink in, he probably wasn't though.
"That must have been quite the dance, eh?" Saron attempted a small, crooked smile, but the warmth died quickly on his face.
