The Nailwidow prepared for the journey. She collected her herbs and charms in a small bag and put it inside a big bag that she slung over her shoulder. Her staff, made from an ancient tree's branch leaned against a wall of her cave. When she picked the staff, light danced in the runes carved on the wood and it hummed with energy. It stank of death.
Nife was packing more knives in his belt and on his person. There was a knife for carving and a knife for slashing and there was a knife for picking pieces of soul of the people he had killed. His teacher had always told him to carry as many knives as he needed and none that he would not. The last knife that he slipped in a sheath made inside the skin of his own right, had no name. It was a black piece of iron that demanded only one thing. Blood.
The dark man who had hired Nife's services for retrieval of the jar sat in his room under a busy street and threw dice on the floor. He counted all the number and the number of times he had thrown. He calculated everything to align with the stars and predicted futures that could have been. He counted 977 futures in which he would have the possession of the heart in that jar.
The old man's body in the small shop slowly rotted and flies started to lay eggs in his empty eyes. No one walked through the door of the small shop.
The heart in the jar now pulsed with a red glow like a homing beacon.
Calling out to its owner.
After a century of silence.
Nife was packing more knives in his belt and on his person. There was a knife for carving and a knife for slashing and there was a knife for picking pieces of soul of the people he had killed. His teacher had always told him to carry as many knives as he needed and none that he would not. The last knife that he slipped in a sheath made inside the skin of his own right, had no name. It was a black piece of iron that demanded only one thing. Blood.
The dark man who had hired Nife's services for retrieval of the jar sat in his room under a busy street and threw dice on the floor. He counted all the number and the number of times he had thrown. He calculated everything to align with the stars and predicted futures that could have been. He counted 977 futures in which he would have the possession of the heart in that jar.
The old man's body in the small shop slowly rotted and flies started to lay eggs in his empty eyes. No one walked through the door of the small shop.
The heart in the jar now pulsed with a red glow like a homing beacon.
Calling out to its owner.
After a century of silence.
Fantastic! Keep it coming!
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