Father Milton’s friends from out-of-town were an interesting folk, Zune thought. Their clothing was all black, their hair dyed black,and they wore strange makeup around their eyes, as if they were crying darkness. They all wore rather tall shoes (several inches at the sole), and many belts on their black jean pants, and various spiky jewelry adorned their faces, wrists, and their thick leather jackets.

Father Milton had explained to Zune that these people were the I’Mos sect of the Siblinghood of Dangerous Pointy Objects. Their creed demanded they conceal from the world and protect many powerful objects, lest they fall into vile hands. The I’mos were a worker commune, and in addition to being fiercely trained (nearly-pacifist) warriors were also skilled set designers, woodworkers, embroiderers, and baristas.

Crowhead, whose name was apparently a self-given in a rather violent musical ritual (note: a “mosh”), was apparently “in-charge,” although the religious canon of the I’mos meant that his role was mostly a symbolic organizing head, rather than a despot like Mentholarix had been. Indeed, Crowhead was very interested in what all of his Siblings of the Dangerous Pointy Objects had to say and ask of him, and did not consider any type of work above him. It was a much different attitude than the union organization of labor that Zune understood, but he thought it was an admirable organization of labor that held its own beauty, even if the kobold could not fully admire its human-ness. It did help Zune’s opinion on the sect’s labor organization that the I’mos of the Siblinghood of Pointy Objects had offered to finish building most of Zune’s set (and provide the materials) in exchange for Bonesplitter.

The only catch was that the I’mos did not have a painter, but Zune figured that he could find one with the hundreds of gold hilants the I’mos had also given him. (Note: While it is commonly held falsehood that the I’mos do not value currency, it is true that they disdain its use unless it is in direct exchange for a Dangerous Pointy Object).

And so, it was on the thirtieth day of the month, while Zune, Father Milton, and the I’mos were nearing completion of the set, that a rather tall orc wandered up behind the set (somehow coming from the east, despite Eden being to the west of Zune’s land) holding a particularly-nasty looking sword. If one looked carefully into the front-oriented shadow (foreshadow, if you will) that Real Galadhorn’s body and Killer-throatslitter-taxevasion-littering cast, you might swear you saw the sword dripping saliva or some other liquid from its tip. Right before Zune was about hammer the last nail into the set, completing it utterly, Killer-throatslitter-taxevasion-littering’s puppet unleashed a nasty growl of a command.

“Halt your business, or fall where you stand!” the puppet-orc’s body said, pointing the nasty-looking sword towards Zune. Everyone froze. Dramatic tension bubbled up all around, hanging like a fine mist on the morning air. The sword drank it in like ambrosia, and if one looked carefully they would notice that the cursed sword enlarged slightly, empowered by the command it had forced the orc to say.

Zune gulped, an angry orc was never good news; or so the regulations drawn up by the Collect(i)on of U(n)ified (C)onstruction K(h)obolds Labor Union (INCH) had seemed to indicate. What had he done to draw the orc to ire? Dramatic tension leaked from Zune’s pores, and the sword once more drew in the delicious power.

More. Give. Me. More. The sword spoke to Real Galadhorn telepathically. Galadhorn, the real Real Galadhorn, replied with a whimper, releasing even more dramatic tension as the sword snapped control back. Killer-throatslitter-taxevasion-littering (henceforth, Killer-throatslitter, since it is truly a pain for me, the narrator, to keep saying) felt as though he was in complete control. He was loving it.

“I will kill you now, if it’s all the same to you, kobold.” Killer-throatslitter willed through the orc’s vocal cords. Galadhorn was barely resisting at this point. Galadhorn’s body jumped on stage, and started walking slowly towards Zune.

“Do you have any last words? If so, it would bring me much pleasure to kill you in the middle of saying them.” the “orc” “asked.”

****

Father Milton couldn’t believe what he was seeing. Real Galadhorn was going to kill the friendly kobold, right now. Oh, if only he held the power of a legendary sword, by which to protect the small and pathetic creature.

Realizing that he did, Father Milton reached for Amorokyus, Wielder for Dreams just as the narrator realized he had been pronouncing the sword’s name incorrectly. Fortunately, Zune was far too busy to chastise me for this matter, although I did accidentally leak some dramatic tension, feeding Killer-throatslitter even more.

Anyways, as Father Milton grabbed the blade, a familiar voice shot through his head. One he had only recently started to hear again.

You forfeited the right to defend the weak long ago, my…FORMER disciple. Brestmylc whispered to the former-paladin. Use Amorokyus for violence, and your life shall be forfeight. Father Milton paused, as even more dramatic tension entered the scene.

“But Zune, he needs help.” Father Milton begged Brestmylc, the god of justice.

Then you must help him without the sword. You know what you did, you know that you will never be worthy again.

A single tear (a common illness, endemic to Absurdia) fell down Father Milton’s cheek. How could he save Zune? How could he prevent this mindless slaughter if he could not fight; if he could not wield Amorokyus in combat again?

Justice does not always lay in violence, Milton. Brestmylc whispered.

Of course! I understand now! I must follow the conflict resolution teachings of this kobold! Thank you Brestmylc! The sextuagenerian Father Milton drew the blade above his head, and interjected before Zune could speak.

“With Amorokyus, Wielder of Dreams to be bare witness to my promise: Thou will not harm that kobold!”

It was simple, really. The orc didn’t realize Father Milton could not use Amorokyus. Justice, afterall, was about the threat of intense violence. Or so Father Milton falsely assumed. It was close enough of a revelation as Brestmylc thought she was going to get out of the fallen paladin today, so she let it be.

The sword drank up the dramatic tension like a thirsty dog. The orc groaned in pain as Killer-throatslitter-taxevasion-littering increased in power, length, not girth (well, a slight amount of girth), and sharpness. It was particularly nasty-looking at this point.

Amorokyus. The evil cursed sword shuttered at the name. Brestmylc. Killer-throatslitter hated Brestmylc. She had been a pain in his side for millennia, always stopping his plans right when they were getting dramatic. This time, however, was different. They were on a literal stage, dramatic tension filled the air like the aroma of a particularly tasty dumpling restaurant. He was in his element, nothing could defeat on the stage of a show. NOTHING. And so, attempting to create more dramatic tension, the cursed sword played along with the paladin’s demand.

“And why is that?” Real Galadhorn’s body asked, right as Killter-throatslitter-taxevasion-littering used its accumulated power to end the chapter early as a means to drink in the dramatic tension exuded by the reading audience.

Hey wait a minute! That’s my-