The Reaper was instinctually drawn to the desecration of others; it was in his blood, in his soul, in his deadly, nefarious essence. It seeped through his veins and poured through his bones, intertwined with his acrimonious breath, with his toxic, iniquitous indulgences. But without a true enemy to face – no crusading adversaries, no biased abductors, no murdering or gallivanting thieves – he was forced to consign himself repeatedly to exterminating the constant barrage of gourds.
He wandered into the labyrinth this time, pausing at the entrance, not yet eager to wander into the confines with the eternal distraction of gnawing gourd teeth and eerie stares. His whole life had been a damned warren; he’d venture into this one when the current assaults and sieges had ended.
This time, instead of just kicking or throwing the little beasts, he’d taken to stabbing them as they got closer with a broad stick he’d picked up along the wood line, taking great pleasure in feeling the makeshift dagger lacerate its way through rind upon rind. Sometimes he used it as exercise and training; as if this were some great trial, instead of the ridiculous nuances hovering over them. In a few moments he went painstakingly slow in his draw, letting them get closer and closer in order to perfect his precision – swooping down by their stems as they growled and hissed. Others were dispatched swiftly, hastily, quickly, pulp and seeds flown in every direction. It almost made him smile.
