Practice makes perfect. Or at least, so I’m told. Occasionally I’ll just sit down and churn out something stupid in a vain attempt to maintain some form of writing quality. The result here, I think, speaks for itself really.
“Huh, I guess it was nothing after all.”
The above is an extract taken from a conversation between two palace guards. There really is no need to go into any real detail regarding the two chaps, considering by the time it will have taken you to finish reading this sentence, they will have been murdered. Oops, there they go. One took an arrow to the face and the other the knee, causing him to topple and fall from the balconies, landing on a poor unsuspecting granny raising money for some stray kittens.
Guess they’re going to have to go hungry after all.
It’s a funny old life being a guard. In almost every single realm or, heck, even universe, it seems like they just have one job; to stand around uselessly until the hero or villain of the tale blows past them and knocks them out or kills them, depending on their mood. It was no different for these two particular unfortunate souls, who now find themselves joining a very long queue for security jobs in heaven. It’s funny actually; there are a lot of red shirted people up there for some reason.
The palace that they’d done such an outstanding job in guarding belongs to none other than the High Daemonic Lord Elt’Gat, a rather purple looking bloke with a tendency of making somebody burst into flames for passing the mustard instead of the ranch sauce. He’s not a very nice person really.
So why are there currently a group of ten highly trained assassins donned head to toe in black heading for his bed-chambers?
It certainly isn’t for a slumber party.
Observe the one at front.
This particular assassin’s name is Jedidiah, and he’s a right nasty piece of work.
Wearing the stereotypical jet black cloth of an assassin, wielding no less than three daggers and carrying a deadly yew bow armed with several razor edged arrows, he’s the kind of guy that warrants the short anti-joke, “Jedidiah walks into a bar. Everybody else immediately gets up and leaves, recognising the potential danger in the situation.”
Here now, as, followed by his “merry” band of killers, he approaches the doorway to the daemons bed chamber.
Ushering his troupe to line up along the wall, he puts his ear to the wall and motions everybody to be quiet. They comply. The wicked scar that slashes directly across his forehead and through his right eye gives him a sort of “I’m clearly a tougher guy than you, so sit the hell down,” authority.
Through the fairly thin wood of the door, he hears snoring; a horrendous, carnivorous sound, somewhere between a lion’s roar and the gross old lady who serves school meals with the flu attempting to breathe through her mucus filled mouth.
The mark is present. It’s time to end it.
Slowly, the door creaks open, and the ten assassins move in.
It may seem a little silly really, seeing as usually when one hires an assassin, one does the job. However, when it comes to felling a daemon, particularly a daemon lord like Elt’gat, a little more precaution is required. Elt’gat, although primarily humanoid, has the aforementioned violet skin, accompanied by claws for hands which could gut a man in a single swipe. Additionally, when hunting Elt’gat, always be aware of his breath. It’s toxic, and that’s just when he inhales. “How is that possible?” it can be asked. The answer is simple, magic. That should infuriate the scientists.
Jedidiah sneaks up to the bed, a dagger in each hand and a third now between his teeth, so much for personal hygiene. Then again, in the barely remembered Kingdom of Afterlight, where these particular events are unfolding, standing out in the rain counts as a shower, so it’s all a matter of opinion really.
The beast has yet to move, beyond the horrendous snoring. Using the daggers in his hands, Jedidiah plunges down, with an evil gleam in his left eye.
His arms lock up.
Elt’Gat smiles coyly. He slowly opens his eyes and indicates upwards.
In horror, Jedidiah stares at the ceiling, where a number of large, grinning spiders stare down at him. Jedidiah and the assassins look around themselves; they notice that in their blind enthusiasm, they all filed themselves neatly into a complete entanglement of webbing, restricting their every move.
Elt’gat stands up, all eight feet of him, and inhales, before sweeping the entire room in fire.
“Should’ve gone to Specsavers,” he says later, before returning peacefully to bed.