Diablo Con Carne

[0xDEADCAFE]

I needed a break from the excessively grim, thickly melodramatic, self-indulgent adjectival abuse of my current multi-chapter effort. So, I served up this light dish: freshly stewed just this morning, still warm from my keyboard, slightly spicy with a hint of irony, and hopefully, richly satisfying. Bon appetite!

[0xDEADCAFE]

“More chips?”

One of the two men seated at the small circular table nodded vigorously and spoke through a mouthful of chili, “Yef, pleef.”

The waiter replaced the crumb-filled bowl on the table with a full one from his tray. “Another satisfied customer” he thought, looking over the small open-air café packed with diners, and at the long line of would-be patrons waiting for an open table.

“Another bowl!” came a voice from his right.

“Just one per customer,” he answered.

The man stood up, “Oh come on, I’ve got good money, here, I’ll give you double for another bowl.”

“Sorry, sir, but it wouldn’t be fair,” he said, nodding toward the line. “I’d tell you to come back tomorrow, but I’m afraid today is our last day.”

“Last day? How come,” asked the man.

“The chili requires a very special ingredient, which is always in short supply. It’s all but gone now.”

The man frowned and sat back down, busying himself with scooping every last bit of the chili from his bowl.

Another customer, a young woman at a nearby table, held up her bowl, “Pleeeeease?”

The waiter just smiled and shook his head gently. Though he hated disappointing customers their pleading was music to his ears. They were there for only one reason, for the best chili in all of Sanctuary, served in only one place: here.

He had been smiling for a week now, ever since opening day. The success of this establishment was so satisfying to him because he was not only the waiter, but also the busboy, the dish washer, the host, and the chef: Seybol, sole proprietor of Seybol’s Slayer Chili.”

“Hot sauce!”

Seybol glided over and transferred a small bottle from his tray to the table. Behind him he heard the sound of a spoon being scraped on the bottom of a bowl. From his left, “You gonna finish that,” answered with an earnest “You bet I am, Get yer own!”

It was all music to his ears. He had been many things in his life, adventurer, soldier, demon-slayer, chef, a long run of odd-jobs and almost-careers. But never had anything satisfied like this: to own his own restaurant, no matter how briefly, to have a packed house and a pouch full of gold, even if it were not a large one. He patted the small bulging bag hanging from his belt and it jingled, as it did when he walked, a jingling that to his ears sounded like musical words: “good job”, “well done”, and “great chili, the best ever.”

He strolled slowly and watchfully among the tables, refilling empty glasses, taking away the empty bowls, greeting and seating new customers, setting steaming bowls full of hot peppers, tender beans, and chunks of the most delicious meat, all swimming in a sumptuous red-brown sauce before their eager, ginning maws.

Always congenial when denying the endless requests for another bowl, always appreciative of the copious compliments and even the most meager tips, he savored his every day in this business. And especially today, the last day, the day on which Seybol’s Slayer Chili would be closing once again, and very soon now. There was only enough left for a few more bowls. After a few more customers there would be only one, the last one, which he always saved for himself.

“Ow! My teeth! Ow!” cried a man from the other end of the café.

Seybol walked in the direction of the plaintive cry and saw a smallish, middle-aged man sitting alone at a table, holding his jaw, with a pained look on his face.

“Some trouble here?”

“I should say so-“ started the angry man before he looked up at Seybol, the sight of whom immediately reminded him of the waiter’s immense size. Seybol was a giant of a man, with a wall of a chest, and the most thickly muscular arms the man had ever seen.

Well, I…, here, look at this, I bit into it. It’s a stone or something, hard as a rock, it was in my chili. I think I broke a tooth or somethin’.”

Seybol’s face brightened as he spoke gently to his pained and somewhat frightened customer. “Well, you found it. You’ve won the prize.”

Seybol took the yellow stone off the table, wiped it clean with a cloth, and held it up in the air. It was smooth and geometrical, like a crystal, and slender, about the same length and width as one of Seybol’s giant fingers. He turned toward the center of the dining area and announced, in a loud but melodious voice, “Ladies and gentleman, we have a winner!”

A few people clapped briefly but most remained hunched over their bowls, eating like it was their last meal.

Seybol winked at the lucky customer, “You’re not supposed to eat it though, just how hungry are you?”

“I thought it was a chip or something, it’s yellow after all. What is it?”

“A stone, as you say, but a very special one.”

“I see, so what’s this about a prize?”

Seybol placed a glass filled with ice cubes on the table and motioned to the man to put one on his aching tooth. The man complied as Seybol told him of his prize, “This special stone entitles its finder to the Seybol’s Slayer Chili grand prize, which is given to one and only one customer per batch of chili.”

“Grand prize, eh? Well, why didn’t you say so, my jaw don’t hurt all that much. What’d I win?

“Come back tonight after business hours. I have a lot of work to do tonight, closing the café and preparing for my journey, so you better make it pretty late. I’ll tell you all about it when you come.”

* * *

Late that night the man returned to Seybol’s to claim his prize. All the tables and chairs were stacked and many boxes were piled up in front of the long counter which was the only remaining piece of furniture. A for-sale sign was hung on one of the boxes and the name of a well-known trading company was written below it.

The countertop was bare aside from a cloth loosely draped at one end near Seybol, who stood relaxed behind the counter contentedly sharpening an enormous great-sword.

“Hello! It’s me, the lucky customer.”

“Hello” said Seybol without looking up. He continued to work on his sword, his huge hand hiding the sharpening stone. His fist moved slowly up the blade making a faint grinding sound.”

“Well, it sure has been my lucky day, you know, finding that stone and all.”

Seybol remained quiet, working on his sword.

“Yes indeed. I don’t normally fancy myself lucky at all, no.”

Seybol made no answer.

“But not today, no, today it was lucky, lucky me.”

“Do you believe in fate?” Seybol asked.

“Fate? Naw! Oh, I suppose, could be, who knows, you know? Don’t think much about things like that, no. Just give me a pint of ale, a paying job, or a… a great bowl chili, that’s enough for me. And that chili of yours. It’s, well.. it’s fan-damn-tastic is all. That’s what it is, fan-damn-tastic.”

“Thank you,” replied Seybol, smiling.

“Say, I don’t suppose you’d be givin’ out the recipe, wouldya?”

Seybol glanced at the man briefly.

“Right! Didn’t think so. Can’t blame a guy for asking, though, can ya?”

For a short while the only sound was the faint scrape of the stone against Seybol’s blade. It was a quiet, lonely night, with no breeze, and no foot traffic at this end of the street.

“So! Look I don’t mean to rush you or nothin’, but I’m in a bit of a hurry you see. I’m just on my way home from the tavern see, and just thought I’d stop by, and…, uh, pick up my prize?”

“So you think you are lucky?”

“Well, sure, I suppose. It was lucky to find that stone wasn’t it?

“Was it your luck that you found it? Or was it the stone’s? Perhaps it found you?”

The man scratched his head but said nothing.

“I sometimes think it is the momentous events in our lives that find us, rather than we them,” said Seybol.

“Oh, yeah, I see wha-“

Seybol continued, interrupting the man, “Like this sword. Before I found it I just drifted from one job to the next. It seemed in my youth that there was always some gold-rich churl eager to employ a man of my size to put the strong-arm on some poor soul, slay an enemy, or protect his precious stash.

The way Seybold spoke, slow and thoughtfully, it seemed like he was warming up to something, so the man just settled himself against the counter and listened to his story.

“Well it was on one of those jobs that this sword came to me. I had chased a wounded animal into a cave, or so I thought. My employer told me it was some kind of wolf-demon, but I didn’t believe him. A job’s a job though. The cave was pitch-black except for the light of my torch.

“I hunted for that beast for an hour with no success, until it found me. It jumped on me from behind, knocked me down and sent my war hammer and torch flying. Before I could get to the torch it went out and there I was crawling in pitch darkness without my weapon and some kind of vicious animal prowling nearby. I couldn’t see a thing.

“But I could hear it panting, circling me. I knew it was only a matter of time before it struck again. If I could get my hands around its neck I might have a chance, I thought. So I held my breath, and listened for it, listening like I never did before, knowing that hearing the sound of its paws on the cave floor might be my only warning, my only chance to get out of that cave alive.

“So I just listened. And then I heard it. At first I thought it was just my ears ringing, but it was different, like singing. After a few moments I could make out voices and what sounded like words. It was like the reverent and serious singing that you hear in a church, but purer, and steely cold, like a choir of avenging angels. It was warning me, calling to me.

“I crawled toward the sound and waved my hand in the darkness hoping to find something. All at once it was in my hand, like it jumped into it. The hilt was warm and it was then that I knew that the thing stalking me was in fact a demon.

“The sword told me. Not in so many words exactly, but I could feel it, its hatred for the beast. I could feel the way it watched it, the lust with which it wanted to kill it. And then my hand jerked and I was swinging at I knew not what with a strength that I knew I did not possess.

“The blade caught the leaping beast in mid-air, cut it clean in two, and when it was dead the sword went cold and quiet, like any other weapon. I took the head back to my employer and he paid me handsomely. I didn’t tell him about the sword. I kept it.

“After that I took more jobs slaying demons to test the sword. Every time I got near a demon it would warm in my hand and sing its cold and pure song. It killed for me. All I had to do was bring it near a demon and it would take over, like it was wielding me. With that sword I felt I could kill any demon, no matter how large or foul. After a while I was convinced of it.

“And that’s what changed my life. With this sword I didn’t have to work for anyone ever again, other than paying customers, of course. With this sword I could carry on in the family business, just like my father, who ran an inn for most of his life. So that’s how Seybol’s Slayer Chili came to be.”

Seybol went silent again, then after a moment said, “Now about your prize.”

Seybol laid the sword and grinding stone on the counter right in front of the man and stepped over to a satchel lying on the ground. He then opened it and began digging around inside of it.

The man looked first at the sword, noticing a long row of small notches in the guard, and then at the grinding stone, remarking “Oh, look at that, you were using that yellow stone I found to sharpen your sword! Say, what is that thing anyway?”

Seybol came over to the man with a small bundle in one hand and a stick in his other.

“Here’s your prize.”

“Thanks! Well, what’ve we here?”

What he had was a very old and worn cloak, a pair of equally dilapidated sandals, and a very plain walking stick. He didn’t try to hide his disappointment.

“That’s it? Some old clothes? Look I don’t mean to be rude, but if this is some kind of joke…”

“Well, think of them as complimentary gifts; they are all you really need for your journey.”

“My journey? Oh I get it, that’s the real prize, ey? Did I win a trip or something?”

“What you won is what you found, you’ve already seen your prize,” said Seybol, picking up the yellow stone from the countertop and holding it in the palm of his hand.

“The stone?”

“Yes the stone. It’s a very special one. See how it glints in the moonlight, how it reflects the light inward, traps it within its angular walls, reshapes it, and changes its color before releasing it again.”

“Yes. It’s very pretty, but...”

“But that’s not all, look.” Seybol brought his other hand over the stone and cupped it, cloaking the stone in darkness. “This stone has a light of its own, a soul if you will, look.”

The man stepped closer and bent his head down to look through the small portal that Seybol made between his thumb and forefinger, from which a faint light emanated.

“Well look at that, it do-“

Seybol suddenly reached out and grabbed the man’s throat, hard. The man sputtered and struggled, but was completely helpless in the iron grip of Seybol’s huge hand.

“A trip? Yes indeed, but to where I don’t know. I never know. But you’ll know, soon enough.”

Seybol now gripped the stone like a dagger and held it high above the man.

“Now don’t struggle so much, you wouldn’t want me to miss.”

With a jerk of his muscular frame Seybol brought his hands together. The man tried to scream as the pointed tip of the stone entered his forehead, but Seybol held him firm, and continued to hold him, as he pounded the stone further and further into his head.

After a few minutes the struggling, the pounding, the frantic, futile workings of a mouth trying, but unable, to scream, had stopped. In a few minutes more the man stood dazed, wearing the old sandals and the dusty long cloak with a cowl that hung low over his face, hiding his empty eyes, his tortured expression, and his bloody forehead from which the slender, glowing crystal now protruded.

“Here’s your staff,” said Seybol, extending the simple walking stick. The man took it and looked at Seybol. But he did not see him. His eyes could now see nothing without, nothing but the inner fire of the merciless stone, the dancing flames and darting shadows of what was now his own personal hell.

In a moment he turned, and with a soft thud of the walking stick on the dry ground, took the first step of his very last journey. Seybol sheathed his now softly singing sword across his back, picked up his pack and satchel, and fell in step behind.

“To where this time, oh wretched wanderer? In what far-off land will be the next grand opening of Seybol’s Slayer Chili?”

But no answer came from the cowled and sandaled man, making a trail in the dirt with his steadily falling staff as he went, followed closely by a smiling barbarian who listened in quiet rapture to the music of angels rising above them and taking flight in the clear midnight sky.

[RevenantsKnight]

Heh...you’ve got quite a unique idea here (though since you wrote it, why should that be surprising?) It’s definitely a contrast to the epilogue of Love at First Fight, enjoyably lighthearted and whimsical instead of entrancing and grim, though both work just fine for me, and, intentionally or not, there’s a bit of darker side running through this piece. Anyway, here’re some comments, and apologies for my tardiness; I’ve switched from a good internet connection to a slow and inconsistent one that has an affinity for hacking up hairballs.

“Another satisfied customer” he thought, looking over the small open-air café packed with diners, and at the long line of would-be patrons waiting for an open table.

Very minor detail: there should be a comma, inside the parenthesis, at the end of the quote.

The man stood up, “Oh come on, I’ve got good money, here, I’ll give you double for another bowl.”

The comma after “money” should be a semicolon.

“Last day? How come,” asked the man.

The comma at the end of the speech should be a question mark.

The man frowned and sat back down, busying himself with scooping every last bit of the chili from his bowl.

Given the number of times you use the word “bowl” in this first part, I’d suggest thinking up a synonym or two.

Though he hated disappointing customers their pleading was music to his ears.

There should be a comma after “customers.”

The success of this establishment was so satisfying to him because he was not only the waiter, but also the busboy, the dish washer, the host, and the chef: Seybol, sole proprietor of Seybol’s Slayer Chili.”

There’s a stray quotation mark at the end of this sentence...better snag it before it runs off and chugs all your bleach.

But never had anything satisfied like this: to own his own restaurant, no matter how briefly, to have a packed house and a pouch full of gold, even if it were not a large one.

I think that should be “...owning his own restaurant...” and “...having a packed house...”

He strolled slowly and watchfully among the tables, refilling empty glasses, taking away the empty bowls, greeting and seating new customers, setting steaming bowls full of hot peppers, tender beans, and chunks of the most delicious meat, all swimming in a sumptuous red-brown sauce before their eager, ginning maws

Most...delicious...meat? *twitch* ...Anyway, “ginning” should probably be “grinning.”

“I should say so-“ started the angry man before he looked up at Seybol, the sight of whom immediately reminded him of the waiter’s immense size.

The last clause here seems a little uneven; could you get away with something like “...started the angry man as he looked up, and then quieted upon seeing Seybol’s massive frame”?

Well, I…, here, look at this, I bit into it. It’s a stone or something, hard as a rock, it was in my chili. I think I broke a tooth or somethin’.”

Remember that extra quotation mark? I think the start of this passage would be a great place for it.

“You’re not supposed to eat it though, just how hungry are you?”

There should be a semicolon, not a comma, after “though,” since the sentence could be split as “...supposed to eat it though. Just how hungry are you?” and still work grammatically.

The man complied as Seybol told him of his prize, “This special stone entitles its finder to the Seybol’s Slayer Chili grand prize, which is given to one and only one customer per batch of chili.”

The repetition of “prize” is getting to be a bit much, in my opinion; I’d change “told him of his prize” to something like “elaborated” to address this. I recognize that in dialogue it probably should be called a “prize,” as that’s what Seybol calls it at first, but because of that I’d avoid using it in narration.

“Hello” said Seybol without looking up. He continued to work on his sword, his huge hand hiding the sharpening stone. His fist moved slowly up the blade making a faint grinding sound.”

Another wandering quotation mark! I’d check the fence around their pen and see if they’ve broken it down.

“Well, sure, I suppose. It was lucky to find that stone wasn’t it?

There should be a comma after “stone.”

“Well it was on one of those jobs that this sword came to me.”

There should be a comma after “well.”

“Every time I got near a demon it would warm in my hand and sing its cold and pure song. It killed for me. All I had to do was bring it near a demon and it would take over, like it was wielding me.”

Nice take on magical weapons.

“What you won is what you found, you’ve already seen your prize,” said Seybol, picking up the yellow stone from the countertop and holding it in the palm of his hand.

The comma after “found” should be a semicolon. A general note for the rest of this piece: see if you have two complete clauses (i.e. clauses that could be sentences by themselves) connected by a comma. If you do, change it to a semicolon.

“Yes the stone.”

There should be a comma after “yes.”

“Well look at that, it do-“

There should be a comma after “well.” Another general note: commas go wherever a natural pause in speech is found; I suggest reading sentences (especially dialogue) out loud to see if you’re missing any commas. Interestingly enough, I don’t remember this problem (and the preceding one) popping up much in your other works, so my apologies if this is just stuff you already know.

His eyes could now see nothing without, nothing but the inner fire of the merciless stone, the dancing flames and darting shadows of what was now his own personal hell.

“Nothing without” sounds off to me; I’m not sure if “without” can be used in this fashion, but its other meaning keeps popping into my head regardless of whether your sentence is correct or not. I’d advise changing that, and also replacing “nothing but” with “only.” The rest of this is quite vivid, though.

But no answer came from the cowled and sandaled man, making a trail in the dirt with his steadily falling staff as he went, followed closely by a smiling barbarian who listened in quiet rapture to the music of angels rising above them and taking flight in the clear midnight sky.

Again, there’s another nice image here. However, with the way the last bit is worded, it sounds like there are actually angels “rising above them and taking flight.” I’d put a comma after “angels” and add “the notes” before “rising” to clear this up, though that might weaken the writing a little. It’s really an artistic call on this one, I guess.

All in all, an enjoyable bit of writing. Thanks for posting!

[0xDEADCAFE]

As always Rev, bowlfuls of thanks for the thorough crit, this time with a side of guacamole. My sense of punctuation seems to have gone on vacation with the rest of the employed world. Corrections will be made!

There’s a stray quotation mark at the end of this sentence...better snag it before it runs off and chugs all your bleach. :lol: I found this hilarious even though I don't have any idea what you're talking about: "...chugs all your bleach." Huh?


And thanks for the kind words...

[0xDEADCAFE]

“More chips?”

One of two men seated at the small circular table nodded vigorously and spoke through a mouthful of chili, “Yef, pleef.”

The waiter replaced the empty bowl on the table with a full one from his tray. “Another satisfied customer,” he thought, looking over the small open-air café packed with diners, and at the long line of would-be patrons waiting for an open table.

“More chili!” came a voice to his right.

“Just one serving per customer,” he answered.

The man stood up and said, “Oh come on, I’ve got good money. Here, I’ll give you double for another.”

“Sorry sir, but it wouldn’t be fair,” the waiter said, nodding toward the line. “I’d tell you to come back tomorrow, but I’m afraid today is our last day.”

“Last day? How come?” asked the man.

“The chili requires a very special ingredient, which is always in short supply. It’s all but gone now.”

The man frowned and sat back down, busying himself with scooping every last bit from his already thoroughly scraped bowl.

Another customer, a young woman at a nearby table, held up her plate. “Pleeeeease?”

The waiter just smiled and shook his head gently. Though he hated disappointing customers, their pleading was music to his ears. They were here for only one reason: for the best chili in all of Sanctuary, served only in this establishment.

He had been smiling for a week now, ever since opening day. The success of the chili was so satisfying to him because he was not only the waiter, but also the busboy, the dish washer, the host, and the chef: Seybol, sole proprietor of Seybol’s Slayer Chili.

“Hot sauce!” came another voice.

Seybol glided over and transferred a small bottle from his tray to the table. Behind him he heard the familiar sound of a spoon being scraped against glazed pottery. From his left, “You gonna finish that,” answered with an earnest “You bet I am, Get yer own!”

It was all music to his ears. He patted the small bulging bag hanging from his belt and it jingled, as it did when he walked, a jingling that to his ears sounded like musical words: “good job”, “well done”, “best chili ever.”

Seybol had been many things in his life: adventurer, soldier, demon-slayer, chef, a long run of odd-jobs and almost-careers, but never had anything satisfied like this. To have his own restaurant with a packed house, no matter how briefly, and a pouch full of gold, no matter how modest, this was the life for him.

He strolled watchfully among the tables, refilling empty glasses, taking away the empty bowls, greeting and seating new customers, and setting down steaming bowls full of hot peppers, tender beans, and chunks of the most delicious meat, all swimming in a sumptuous red-brown sauce before their eager, grinning maws.

Always congenial when denying the endless requests for another bowl, always appreciative of the copious compliments and even the most meager tips, he savored his every day in this business. And especially today, the last day, the day on which Seybol’s Slayer Chili would be closing once again, and very soon now. There were not many bowls left now. After a few more customers there would be only one, the last one, which he always saved for himself.

“Ow! My teeth! Ow!” cried a man from the other end of the café.

Seybol walked in the direction of the plaintive cry and saw a smallish, middle-aged man sitting alone at a table, holding his jaw, with a pained look on his face.

“Some trouble here?” asked Seybol.

“I should say so,“ started the angry man, but he cut his words short as he looked up. Seybol was a giant of a man, with a wall of a chest and a pair of thickly muscled arms that intimidated all but the most stout of heart.

“Well, I, uh… Here, look at this,” the man continued, “I bit into it. It’s a stone or something, hard as a rock. It was in my chili. I think I broke a tooth or somethin’.”

Seybol’s face brightened and he spoke gently to his pained and somewhat frightened customer. “Well, you found it. You’ve won the prize.”

Seybol took the yellow stone off the table, wiped it clean with a cloth, and held it up in the air. It was smooth and geometrical, like a crystal, and slender, about the same size as one of Seybol’s giant fingers. He turned toward the center of the dining area and announced, in a loud, melodious voice, “Ladies and gentleman, we have a winner!”

A few people clapped briefly but most remained hunched over their bowls, eating like it was their last meal.

“You’re not supposed to eat it though. How hungry are you?” said Seybol, winking.

“I thought it was a chip or something, it’s yellow after all. What is it?”

“A stone, as you say, but a very special one.”

“I see, so what’s this about a prize?”

Seybol placed a glass filled with ice cubes on the table and motioned to the man to put one on his aching tooth. The man complied as Seybol explained what he had won. “This special stone entitles its finder to the Seybol’s Slayer Chili grand prize, which is given to one and only one customer per batch of chili.”

“Grand prize, eh? Well, why didn’t you say so, my jaw don’t hurt all that much. What’d I win?

“Come back tonight after business hours. I have a lot of work to do tonight, closing the café and preparing for my journey, so you better make it pretty late. I’ll tell you all about it when you come.”

* * *

Late that night the man returned to Seybol’s to claim his prize. All the tables and chairs were stacked, and many boxes were piled up in front of the long counter which was the only remaining piece of furniture. From one of the boxes hung a for-sale sign with the name of a well-known trading company written below it.

The countertop was bare aside from a cloth loosely draped at one end near Seybol, who stood relaxed behind the counter contentedly sharpening an enormous great-sword.

“Hello! It’s me, the lucky customer.”

“Hello,” said Seybol without looking up. He continued to work on his sword, his huge hand completely obscuring the sharpening stone, which made a faint grinding sound as his fist moved slowly up the blade.

“Well, it sure has been my lucky day, you know, finding that stone and all.”

Seybol remained quiet, working on his sword.

“Yes indeed. I don’t normally fancy myself lucky at all, no.”

Seybol made no answer.

“But not today, no, today it was lucky, lucky me.”

“Do you believe in fate?” Seybol asked.

“Fate? Naw! Oh, I suppose, could be, who knows, you know? Don’t think much about things like that, no. Just give me a pint of ale, a paying job, or a… a great bowl chili, that’s enough for me. And that chili of yours. It’s, well... It’s fan-damn-tastic is all. That’s what it is, fan-damn-tastic.”

“Thank you,” replied Seybol, smiling.

“Say, I don’t suppose you’d be givin’ out the recipe, wouldya?”

Seybol gave the man a short glance.

“Right! Didn’t think so. Can’t blame a guy for asking, though, can ya?”

For a little while the only sound was the scrape of the stone against the blade of Seybol’s sword. It was a quiet, lonely night, with no breeze, and no foot traffic at this end of the street.

“So! Look I don’t mean to rush you or nothin’, but I’m in a bit of a hurry you see. I’m just on my way home from the tavern see, and I just thought I’d stop by…, and,uh…, pick up my prize?”

“So you think you are lucky?”

“Well, sure, I suppose. It was lucky to find that stone, wasn’t it?

“Was it your luck that you found it? Or was it the stone’s? Perhaps it found you?”

The man scratched his head. He opened his mouth, but no sound came out.

“I sometimes think it is the momentous events in our lives that find us, rather than we them,” said Seybol.

“Oh, yeah, I see wha-“

Seybol continued, interrupting the man, “Like this sword. Before I found it I just drifted from one job to the next. It seemed in my youth that there was always some gold-rich churl eager to employ a man of my size to put the strong-arm on some poor soul, slay an enemy, or protect his precious stash.”

The way Seybold spoke, slow and thoughtfully, it seemed like he was warming up to something, so the man just settled himself against the counter and listened to his story.

“Well, it was on one of those jobs that this sword came to me. I had chased a wounded animal into a cave, or so I thought. My employer told me it was some kind of wolf-demon, but I didn’t believe him. A job’s a job though. The cave was pitch-black except for the light of my torch.

“I hunted for that beast for an hour with no success, until it found me. It jumped on me from behind, knocked me down and sent my axe and torch flying. Before I could get to the torch it went out and there I was crawling in pitch darkness with no weapon, and some kind of vicious animal prowling nearby. I couldn’t see a thing.

“But I could hear it panting, circling me. I knew it was only a matter of time before it struck again. If I could get my hands around its neck I might have a chance, I thought. So I held my breath and listened for it, listening like I never did before, knowing that hearing the sound of its paws on the cave floor might be my only warning, my only chance to get out of that cave alive.

“So I just listened. And then I heard it. At first I thought it was just my ears ringing, but it was different, like singing. After a few moments I could make out voices and what sounded like words. It was like the reverent and serious singing that you hear in a church, but purer, and steely cold, like a choir of avenging angels. It was warning me, and calling to me.

“I crawled toward the sound and waved my hand in the darkness hoping to find something. All at once the sword was in my hand, like it had jumped into it. The hilt was warm and it was then that I knew that the thing stalking me was in fact a demon.

“It told me. Not in so many words exactly, but I could feel it, its hatred for the beast. I could feel the way it watched it, the lust with which it wanted to kill it. And then my hand jerked and I was swinging at I knew not what with a strength that I knew I didn’t have.

“The blade caught the leaping beast in mid-air, cut it clean in two, and when it was dead the sword went cold and quiet, like any other weapon. I took the head back to my employer and he paid me handsomely. I didn’t tell him about the sword. I kept it.

“After that I took more jobs slaying demons to test itd. Every time I got near a demon it would warm in my hand and sing its cold and pure song. It killed for me. All I had to do was bring it to a demon and it would take over, like it was wielding me. With that sword I felt I could kill any demon, no matter how large or foul. After a while I was convinced of it.

“And that’s what changed my life. With this sword I didn’t have to work for anyone ever again, other than paying customers, of course. With this sword I could carry on in the family business, just like my father, who ran an inn for most of his life.”

Seybol was silent for a few moments. Then he said, “So that’s how Seybol’s Slayer Chili came to be. Now, about your prize…”

Seybol laid the sword and grinding stone on the counter in front of the man and stepped over to a satchel lying on the ground. He opened it and began digging around inside.

The man looked first at the sword, noticing a long row of small notches in the guard, and then at the grinding stone, remarking “Oh, look at that, you were using that yellow stone I found to sharpen your sword! Say, what is that thing anyway?”

Seybol came over to the man with a small bundle in one hand and a stick in his other.

“Here’s your prize.”

“Thanks! Well, what’ve we here?”

What he had was a very old and worn cloak, a pair of equally dilapidated sandals, and a very plain walking stick. He didn’t try to hide his disappointment.

“That’s it? Some old clothes? Look I don’t mean to be rude, but if this is some kind of joke…”

“Well, think of them as complimentary gifts; they are all you really need for your journey.”

“My journey? Oh I get it, that’s the real prize, eh? Did I win a trip or something?”

“What you won is what you found; you’ve already seen your prize,” said Seybol, picking up the yellow stone from the countertop and holding it in the palm of his hand.

“The stone?”

“Yes, the stone. It’s a very special one. See how it glints in the moonlight, how it reflects the light inward, traps it within its angular walls, reshapes it, changes its color - before releasing it again.”

“Yes. It’s very pretty, but-”

“But that’s not all, look.” Seybol brought his other hand over the stone and cupped it, cloaking the stone in darkness. “This stone has a light of its own, a soul if you will. Look.”

The man stepped closer and bent his head down to gaze through the small portal that Seybol made between his thumb and forefinger, from which a faint light emanated.

“Well, look at that, it does-“

Seybol suddenly reached out and grabbed the man’s throat, hard. The man sputtered and struggled, but was completely helpless in Seybols’ grasp.

“A trip? Yes indeed, but to where I don’t know. I never know. But you’ll know, soon enough.”

In his other hand, Seybol gripped the stone like a dagger and raised it high above the man.

“Now don’t struggle so much, you wouldn’t want me to miss.”

With a jerk of his muscular frame Seybol brought his hands together. The man tried to scream as the pointed tip of the stone entered his forehead, but Seybol held him firm, and continued to hold him, as he pounded the stone further and further into his head.

After a few minutes the struggling, the pounding, the frantic, futile workings of a mouth trying, but unable, to scream had stopped. In a few minutes more the man stood dazed, wearing the old sandals and the dusty long cloak. The cowl hung low over his face, hiding the empty eyes, the tortured expression, and the bloody forehead from which the slender, now-glowing crystal protruded.

“Here’s your staff,” said Seybol, extending the simple walking stick. The man took it and looked toward Seybol, but did not see him, blinded to the outside world by the inner fire of the merciless stone: the dancing flames and darting shadows of what was now his own personal hell.

In a moment the man turned, and with the soft thud of a walking stick hammering on dry ground, took the first step of his last journey. Seybol sheathed his now softly singing sword across his back, picked up his pack and satchel, and fell in step behind.

“To where this time, oh wretched wanderer? In what far-off land will be the next grand opening of Seybol’s Slayer Chili?”

But no answer came from the cloaked and sandaled man, making a trail in the dirt with his steadily falling staff as he went, followed closely by a smiling barbarian who listened in quiet rapture to the music of angelic voices rising above them and taking flight in the clear midnight sky.