Longacre secured.

Gregory Haylissh affixed a small pin bearing the symbol of House Thrune to the breast of his shirt. He grimaced as the sharpened piece of metal slipped his thick fingers and broke the skin of his thumb. The tiniest dot of blood swelled from his calloused digit. I guess House Thrune will have their people's blood one way or the other he thought to himself. He stuck the finger in his mouth to catch the ruby droplet. Looking forward, he eyed the gruesome display of rebel corpses adorning the square in front of the jail. Fex's men had wanted to send a message, and as far as Gregory was concerned, that message was clearly recieved. When the gallows in front of the former Iomedaen church held four hung bodies, the other surviving rebels had been nailed to makeshift crucifixes in front of the jail. The deputies were untrained in the "art" of torture, and many of the ones facing the cross died long before than the ones Thrune and his man had a hand in. 3 days later, and many of the ones Thrune did personally still gasped for breath. When they had run out of supplies for crucifixion, they used the pillories. Gregory looked at the two still in the devices. Arnie Beratsun and Nella Vinn, covered in their own blood and waste, driven to a point well beyond exhaustion, but just before death, their breathing coming in labored gasps. For two days, they had endured, calling on Iomedae for mercy. When they ran out of space in the holding cells, the sheriff and his deputies slit throats of anyone not pardoned, enslaved, or disappeared by the Archbaron, and piled them in front of Arnie and Nella. Now, on the third day, the pilloried pair had succumbed to madness, clearly suffering from delusions induced by hunger, thirst, and the horrors they had witnessed.  Gregory guessed that on day 6, they would have those pardoned fulfill their punishment by carting off and burying the dead. 

Gregory was no stranger to bloodshed and violence. In his years as a logger, he had witnessed careless men crushed to bloody pulps by falling trees, careful men stung to death by giant hellwasps and filled with toxins to such a degree they appeared as nothing more than a heavy lump of bubbly flesh. Once, he had even witnessed a unbound demon eviscerate a wife bringing her husband a packed meal, and watched as the fiend slurped her entrails like noodles. But this was somehow far worse - it was unrestrained butchery. 

Gregory pulled his thumb from out of his mouth, and eyed it to make sure it was shut. Satisfied that the bleeding had stopped, he processed the scene what had occured in Longacre the last few days, and casually decided that something in him had broken. Possibly his spirit, maybe his sanity. Gregory was not a man of deep introspection. He would just accept that 'something' was broken within himself, and hope that it wouldn't interfere with his life too much  or cause him to make a stupid decision.  He had made a stupid decision donating the handful of coins to Louslik in order to hire the mercenaries. A rash decision made in the hope that their numbers might be enough to overcome the savage brutality of Fex's men. He had nearly agreed to join the ambush that hid in the flower shop. Something had nagged at him not to join those rebels, perhaps it had been good sense, because those men had been slaughtered before they even set foot out the door. 

He hoped that his complicity went unnoticed, and that no one else was privy to the funders. He kept a dagger on his belt now, sharpened to a fine edge. Should Fex's men come for him, he would slit his own throat before even hearing what they wanted of him. For now, he would wear his Thrune pin like nearly all of Longacre's citizens now did, and keep his head low, and his mouth quiet.