Blorthox of Lir, slams his blood-drenched battle-axe into the skull of Selinda, Priestess of the Owldoom Temple. He splats into brain, sending clumps of grey globs from her opened face. Her white arms twist. She collapses.
His love, the object of his pursuit and heir to the throne of Blug, Vhonea, dangles by bound wrists over a vat where a black vampire squid thrashes in hunger. Her naked legs dangle.
Blorthox strides closer. He follows the rope to a lever, and he throws his battle-axe aside, wiping Selinda’s brain bits from his flowing locks. The resolve of victory steams his loins. Then, it happens.
Gardon, Protector of Arzagugoroth, smashes in the Temple door, sends it skidding and slipping into the abysmal Pit.
Another strand pops. Vhonea’s body inches down. She yelps.
But why, thinks Blorthox, has Gardon chosen to appear here at the Owldoom Temple at this, the moment of my epic devotion to Vhonea?
And Gardon, bone sword unsheathed, stammers for words, grunts, readies himself for murder.
There is a silence deeper than the wisdom of Squalchor the Squandering Magus.
Vhonea jolts down another notch.
One thread remains.
Blorthox dashes to the wheel, wrenches at it with the strength of an undead battalion of pig witches.
“You shouldn’t be here, Gardon,” he says.
“For the love and hand of Vhonea am I here, Blorthox. She has used the spell of love's cry, summoned me to—”
A Lir-taught laser-stream shoots from the electrified eyes of Blorthox to his axe. The stream hits, coating the weapon in sheer white. The battle-axe shoots off the floor, and sails straight into Gardon’s juicy guts. He grunts. Blood cascades. Final thoughts: Oblivion.
Blorthox howls. It obliterates Gardon’s body, raining down gouts of blood, bone, and gore, a summer rain, smothering the room in sloppy red chunks.
“How many times have I told you?” he says, “you will never leave me, Vhonea. Not for an army of undead leeches, a horde of bloodthirsty Arghs, and especially not for an unworthy son-of-a-corpse like Gardon the Saboteur, here.”
With that, he wrenches the wheel, sending Vhonea flying out of the pit. Her body flops limp in the corner.
“Our love has miles to go.”