The cursed three thousand years old sword, Killer-throatslitter-taxevasion-littering, liked six things: killing, throat slitting, tax evasion, littering, sucking the soul out of its wielder, and dramatic tension. It is for this sixth reason, that Killer-throatslitter-taxevasion-littering believed it had been brought into existence by some guy all that time ago. Well, for that purpose…and for killing, which was its favorite hobby. It was, in fact, their shared love of the hobby that had brought the sword and Real Galadhad together in the first place.

It’s such a shame this one must die. I’m not quite bored of him yet.

Killer-throatslitter-taxevasion-littering sucked a little bit more of Real Galadhorn’s soul from his body, devouring it like a kobold devours a rat. Galadhorn shed a tear down a single cheek.

“Don’t cry, Galadhorn.” the sword whispered, its voice was deceptively sanguine. “It’s been nearly a month. And even better: as of tomorrow it will have been exactly one month since that bet. Do you know what that means, Galadhorn?”

Galadhorn feigned ignorance, and shook his head. He was scared. He just wanted the killing to stop. Every second he possessed Killer-throatslitter-taxevasion-littering his agony increased tenfold. Galadhorn’s whole life was dissolving into a painful blur of violence and cruelty, and there was nothing he could do to stop it. The sword held onto what remained of his soul like a constrictor as it slowly choked the life from him. I do not want to kill. He thought. I want to paint. I have always wanted to paint. I do not want to kill.

“Painting?” The blade was amused. It delighted in his desperation. “No, Galadhorn, I’m not a big fan of painting. But I have something else we can do that’s similar.” The blade almost seemed to lick its lips. “Killing.” No. They’re not similar at all. Galladhorn objected with all of his will. He was too weak. There was nothing he could do, but to hold on to the core of his soul. Just think of painting.

“Why not kill instead? It’s just like painting, really.” The sword taunted the technically-not-a-criminal.

“How?” Galadhorn forced the question through his throat. The sword pressed on Galladhorn’s tattered soul even harder for control of his body.

“Both can involve lots of red.” The sword laughed cruelly through Galadhorn’s body, mocking the warrior as the body’s original owner retreated deep within the last bastion of his spirit.

He thought of painting flowers. Of sewing furniture. His mother. He remembered her. She was a seamstress. Yes. And she liked to paint. Just like Galadhorn. I will free myself, and I will paint. I will free myself, and I will paint.

Killer-throatslitter-taxevasion-littering was refreshed from giving the scenery a good chewing. It could practically taste the narrative tension. It puppeted one of Galadhorn’s arms, and grabbed an ‘e’ from the chapter title that was hiding behind the couch. The sword smiled through Galadhorn’s face as the letter squirmed in fear.

“Why shouldn’t I kill you?” the sword asked. Yes, squirm. Let. Me. Feed.

“Eeeeeee!” said the letter ‘e.’ The sword sucked in the lingering power of narrative tension, and crushed the rogue letter in Galadhorn’s hand like a fly. It died completely undignified with an anticlimactic squelch.

The other letters gasped. Were they next? What did the cursed sword have planned if it found them? Was the scent of narrative tension lingering on them, now that they were fearing for their lives? (note: yes, it was).

“I’ll be back for you in a bit. Stay still, if you want to die slowly.” Galadhorn’s mouth said.

The letters scrambled through a tiny hole in the wall, and out into Eden. They ran in the direction of the rising sun: eastward. Maybe, just maybe, they could outrun the cursed sword. The sword didn’t mind them. He would find them all eventually, he just had better things to do today.

Killer-throatslitter-taxevasion-littering manipulated his puppet with a sociopathic casualness as he prepared to head the kobold’s domicile east of Eden, even taking the time to complete his morning chores. He meticulous wrote an income of zero on Real Galadhorn’s Form-1040 for the year (not that he had any intention on sending in the form), precisely tossed a six pack of empty plastic water bottles out on to the dusty street, and then marched his host straight through the center of town on a mission. He had a kobold to kill (preferably, with throat slitting).

*******

Cleopatra Bingley, Langley Pinkerton, and Ragnar Son of Mad Titan Uroskyne and the Twelve Harpies of Winter sat in their new favorite saloon, My Cat Ate my Son (Don’t Ask), enjoying their first drinks of the day.

“Hard to believe Asisi’s gone nearly three weeks at this point. But hey, we found this place.” Cleopatra said. The other two nodded in agreement. All three had agreed to give up gambling and stealing for good (which barely affected Eden’s crime rate), and now only paid for their meals. My Cat Ate my Son (Don’t Ask) was the only game in town for people who actually preferred to pay for their meals. And so, despite claiming a prime piece of central Eden, the saloon was entirely empty save for its owner, Cleopatra, Langley, and Ragnar.

“It is shame,” Ragnar said in his Russian-like accent, “that kobold has not performed in past weeks. Creature’s artistry reminds me of my homeland. Truly beautiful to watch.” Cleopatra and Langley had both thought to bring up why Ragnar had suddenly changed his pattern of speech, but knowing their friend’s (rather violent) track record decided it was for the best to leave it. Plus, it gave him a strange air of wisdom.

“Yes. It’s a good thing both of you gave up that silly bet, one of us certainly would have ended up killing Zune. And then we’d be without the possibility of another show.” Langley Pinkerton observed.

“Real Galadhorn is still in.” Cleopatra pointed out.

“I suppose you’re right. We still have a couple weeks to prepare for that, though. Why, it was only on the first of this month we made the gamble.” Pinkerton said.

“But it is the thirtieth.” Ragnar said.

“So?” Cleopatra asked.

“Galadhorn intends to win bet, remember?”

“Oh shit.” Cleopatra Bingley said.

“Oh shit.” Langley Pinkerton said.

“Also Father Milton is there helping Zune with the stage.” Ragnar, Son of Mad Titan Urosykne and the Twelve Haries of Winter said.

All three said “Oh shit” in unison.

Quickly, they slammed double what they owed for drinks, food, and tip on the table and dashed out the door, headed for East of Eden into the rising sun, nearly trampling the runaway letters from the chapter title on their way out.