I am writing way ahead of posting, and not particularly in the right order.

“Out if the way.” He was snarling more than speaking, something he hadn’t done for an eternity. Anger and worry were knots in his veins overflowing with rushing blood. It hammered in his head. The snake's maw on the top of the cane aimed for a shove, right into that monstrous and laughable blue dyed leather he was clad in. A hand stopped it right before, good reflexes, to be expected from someone who had fought in the arena. He gripped it tight. Samson didn’t let go as they stared at each other and Alyn had never been more sure that something in him indeed wanted to kill and rampage. “You’ll have to be a bit more patient, Link.” Samson’s eyes raked over his face in the same absurd interest he had stared before. “And then I am sure his Majesty will make us two dance.” “You think you will like what you find in my head?” Alyn sneered, lips drawn back. For a second he felt the promise, the touch of a diamond clasp grip adorned with thorns, stomping inside his head eagerly. He remembered Elaras ice cold touch with claws burying inside his head. With regards to the memory he clashed his own mind against it, a taste of his desperation. You don’t want to be in my head, he thought again. He remembered the night terrors, the screaming faces, the leering voices that were always commenting his doing and mocking him. He instilled his weakness , his depression, his guilt, into a tightly laced bundle, and he unleashed it only for Samson Merandus. A love letter from one Torturer to another. There was a staggering look, like he didn’t expect the attack. He didn’t show any other sign of fear or emotional impact. But he let go of the cane. “If we dance.” Alyn whispered. “Make sure you don’t misstep. The ghosts in my head are angry and starving. They’d love to feast.” “I am looking forward to it.”