The lash of words from the artist was like the flick of a kid hide flogger, soft with the slightest bite. It was nothing at all to the man he had know in the Briars who shunned blades and laid pain with mere words. Just talking. Conversing. Words and words and words that flayed deep into the mind and was so much worse than any whip or blade because he would draw out bits of truth and would hoard them and turn them back, make the memories black as pitch and sharp as glass by just talking. The Mistress’ banker who worked for her for nothing but hours with the whores.<br/><br/>Three had killed themselves because of that man, Atticus knew. The bite of this artist was toothless in compare.<br/><br/>It was the easiest thing to laugh and shake his head at the man, lies sliding from him slick as silk. “I beg your pardon, sir, but I’m not a whore as my Master made you aware. I have no tricks. Would you rather me not be eager? I will try to contain my excitement, but I do find this quite a novelty. This way.”<br/><br/>He turned and led the man up the stairs, not looking at the whores, ice sinking deeper into his mind with each stair.<br/><br/><hr/><br/>(To (http://elliquiy.com/forums/index.php?topic=98329.msg4888864#msg4888864))