#about grigor

Stradden has owned the Whorehouse in his own right for ten years, since the age of fifteen. He was an apprentice to the previous master for about four.

Excesses in prior management caused him to take particularly brutal measures, not only to be considered seriously as a trader and master despite his youth, but to shore up deficiencies and begin turning a profit again. Inmates of the Whorehouse present at this time remember it as a particularly harrowing year, in which many, many of the previous enslaved people were sold either south or to the mines. 

Grigor's wordsmithery is not as powerful as he'd like you to believe. His magic merely persuades the hearer that whatever he is saying is a good idea, possibly connected to an idea that they had, once, long ago, maybe. He's good at getting into the mind of the hearer, and picking up on clues, and exploiting them in his favor. It is very difficult to say no to him, as it is very difficult to say no to what is obviously a good idea. It's not mind control; it's just very convincing.

Using his wordsmithery has a corrosive effect on his voice, and it becomes more and more difficult for him to speak while using his magic. The effect has worsened over time, since he was once capable of making long speeches while using his magic, and can now manage only a short conversation. His mother, whose powers were based on performance and oration, never suffered from anything similar and could not explain it. Her powers were similarly quite weak in comparison to other wordsmiths.

This edge would never dull. Her soft flesh would always yield, part into deep red lines, and bleed out. It became easier, for the golden-haired girl to pretend that it did not hurt, just as it was easier, in the end for the boy to be a knife. One day, he would wake up and forget that he had ever been anything else.

The first time he dressed her himself. He never explained where he found the gown or the jewels. Her toes had turned dark blue, but he rubbed the pink back into them—sweat on his brow, he said, they were never so bad to begin with. You are lucky I found you. He wound his fingers in her yellow hair, tugging and scraping it into place. He had picked every louse from it himself.

As he laced the back of the gown, he pulled her close. Do as I say. Do not cry. Do not speak. However they hurt you, do not cry, and I will give you whatever you want. You will never wear rags. You will never be hungry or cold. You will never be alone.