To Vore Dignity

The Weapon

This weapon they spoke of... the creature that crowed, crimson lipped, heavy worded. The too-human figure cracking its knuckles under the table, spreading chaos through whispers. All the towns and all their people heard it when it spoke - knew the cadence with which it walked, and the game it could talk.

They joke darkly how it was forged under a smog of failure and pain. Burned into existence in the hottest anger. They say it tore a thousand times at the anvil before it could stand, fleshy legs nothing intimidating (but their potential was). People talked, maybe in scoffs, maybe with some truth.

So when the dusty road yielded this smartly set thing, the lips of the townsfolk pressed together. They sought their guns and swords, but held their hand still. No one dared to rally their words. If there was merit in the blood covered stragglers leaking in from other towns, if there was truth in the stories they told, then what use was fighting?

"A lovely town you have here," the creature noted without malice, "The sunset must be a jewel." It stared up at the cliff side, and around at the houses cluttering the base. The howl of wind pounded far off.

It loped its way past the archway of the inn door. Boots going scrape, scrape, scrape. Smearing mud along the floorboards. It licked its lips, hungry-like.

"Now," it said to the people at the tables, "Where's the blacksmith?"

A woman closed her eyes and clasped her hands. A man halted his bumping knee. Somewhere above the timbers creaked, watching with disinterest.

There by the window sat a woman. Arms thick and hands rough. She reeked of iron and smoke. Darkness under her eyes - the kiss of insomnia.

The creature smiled, calm and lurking, "How could I forget the woman who stood so tall with her hammer at her side. Who refused to lay down. Refused to die. I never did get to say goodbye, you left in such a hurry... stand up."

"Verbose," the Blacksmith's shoulders shook with the effort of staying seated. No one resisted it's orders.

"Stand up."

She did, her shirt bunching out around her waist. "A fine hammer," she shook her head, maybe to hide how her voice quavered, "Shame you broke it."

"Well you know," the Creature drawled, "We couldn't have my skull broken in, now could we. But here we are, with a perfectly fine chance to redeem our smoldering honour. We left on something of a draw. What do you say?"

"I am the hammer that pounded your hands," the Blacksmith waved at the Creature's crippled fingers, "Tell me I shouldn't do more."

The Creature chuckled, slapping its sweaty, mutilated hands down on the table for all patrons to see; and despite their fear, they did. Villagers, travelers, thieves in disguise, leaned forwards.

"Dandy work you did," It sneered, wetting its bloody lips again, "I'm here to reprimand you."

"Oh great Weapon, sower of destruction," the Blacksmith pulled a knife from her belt, resigning herself in her fear, standing amidst it determinedly, "Hold not a word back."

"Of course."

It tapped its foot and the building rattled. Dust upset from the corners. The people shot to their feet, running with the will to survive, leaving the Blacksmith alone. The Creature opened its mouth to begin its Shout, and the Blacksmith threw her knife.