Curse of the Crimson Throne

The End of the Nail

My city weeps.

I approach the alley with head low. My blade, made in the image of His holy weapon, rests within its hilt. The weapon feels light, ready to explode off out in righteous justice.

The young woman continued to scream. She was young, attractive, her willowy features were clearly elven. The effectiveness of the Nail in cowing the citizens, combined with the plague, had cowed the citizenry into submission. This young woman was brave enough to venture the streets, defying the curfew, and was caught.

These members of the Nail were going to punish her. The first held her tight, keeping her grappled. The second was keeping an eye out, ineffectively as I stood in the open and he had not noticed me. The third, the leader, was unbuckling his sword belt.

“And thus I clothe my naked villainy, with odd old ends stol’n out of holy writ…” I say, standing some ten feet away.

My words cut through her screams and she finally sees me. The Knights of the Nail don’t even look at me.

“We’re with the Nail,” the First says, still working on his breeches.

“…And seem a saint, when most I play the devil”, I draw my sword.

“Get lost,” the Second calls.

“He’s armed,” the third calls out from behind the girl.

I bring my blade down into the the First’s shoulder, the simple leather armor not proof against my magical blade. It cuts deep as I feel His Spirit imbue my muscles with heavenly power.

Before the FIrst’s knees begin to buckle, I withdraw the blade and step forward. He gurgles once as his heart, cut in two, fails. He falls forward, a freshet of blood covering the stone.

The second Nail pulls out his longsword and swings the third tosses the girl aside and reaches for his blade.

The second screams and swings again. I deflect the blade down and drive my left foot into his groin. He screams and doubles over, staggering backward.

The third draws his long sword and calls out. I turn to face him as he charges. The swing is clumsy as he follows through, over extending himself. I duck under his swing as he passes by me. I lift him into the air, using the flat of my blade into the back of his knees. I can see his eyes wide as I slam him into the ground, driving my weapon into his chest, splitting his ribs.

The second, crying, is a young man, no more than 18. He holds his long sword before him, feebly. Tears run down his face as he paws at his groin with his free hand.

“Don’t kill me!”

“You’ve been judged, and found wanting,” I say as I bring my blade down. The blade flashes in red and gold as it cuts through hair, skin and skull.



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