Solon whimpers and mewls and throws himself on the ground in hysterics, "No-oooooooo! Don't do this! Ple-eeeeease!" Farthingy grabs him by the scruff of his neck and drags him behind into the dark recesses of the hut.
Urash tentatively walks into the dim, abode and takes in the scene as his eyes adjust to the darkness. Hanging from the ceiling from meathooks are two headless bodies -- skinned, gutted and curing in the chill, dank air. Two large wooden buckets full of congealed blood sit below the two bodies.
In the center of the room, on a dingy butcher's block, a giant rust-pitted cleaver is stuck point down in the heavily chipped wood top and two lifeless faces, with putrefying eyes and swollen tongues seem to stare at you with a frozen expression of terror. Although badly bloated and half-covered in flies you instantly recognize the faces of Rashid the Acadian, and Uvan the Pictish hunter. Your eyes adjust and more details resolve themselves: a pallet of straw in one corner of the hut, and great pile of junk in another. The junk pile is composed of a mix of things: belts, shoes, clothes, broken spears, sheathed swords, a couple of mangled bronze shields and a conical bronze helm with a heavy patina of green casually tossed on the top of the heap.
Farthingy rounds on Urash and points to the severed heads on his great butcher block, "Other man things come here before you. Duke Mallowheart trades them to me, but won't let Farthingy have fire-hair woman." He smacks his lips and his long tongue flicks across his yellow teeth, "Her meat smelled very sweet, and her fear stink would have made fine potions. More is pity for poor Farthingy that Mallowheart is so stingy."