#morphopath

100 days of productivity

19.01.2019. 15/100

100 days of productivity

20.01.2019. 16/100

100 days of productivity

21.01.2019. 17/100

☄️- In a dangerous situation

The sky was as dark as his blood. A faint hue of gold, layered by blackness and ever-present red. Consciousness was a dull coloured thurible swinging back and forth, leaving a trail of confusion and sweet-smelling smoke behind it. He could hear words between each swing, harsh and mocking.

“Might be a comfort to you to know it isn’t personal. Not even a little bit. I know I’d want to know.”

Swish, swish.

“Truth be told, I don’t even know what you look like.”

He could almost hear the bells ringing.

“But I’m sure you know how it goes in this industry. Deus knows, I shouldn’t even be talking to you like this.”

Swish, swish, swish.

“Oh well. Won’t be long now, comrade. See? Sun is rising. Your last, I reckon. So it can’t hurt.”

But it did.

The street lamp flickered out.

Swish, swish.

Morning had arrived. Kalonymus stabbed his Achilles's tendon. The blade passed straight through the delicately sliding muscle by sheer force alone. Blood and white bone and salmon pink tissue. The bounty-hunter screamed, dropping to his knees. It was not a graceful move, not by any means. But it was tempered by a rough and frenzied strength - the very same sort of action his Master would have regarded as far too primitive for their Order. The strength of a beast. One of them. There was shame in the frantic pulse of a wild-thing.

But -

It mattered not. He would achieve his goal. And when that happened, the sins of this lifetime would be washed away.

The bounty hunter had neglected to wear an armoured suit. Fool. The only advantage he had possessed was the element of surprise and this was his no longer. Kalonymus crawled across the wet tiles, crooked blade now held in plain sight. Another jab. The man’s feet lashed out as the tendons in his kneecap were separated. He had no formal training, no protection, no control of the involuntary jerking of his limbs. Kalonymus sheathed his blade in the man’s thigh. Then his stomach. A primitive, dragging maneuver - he had not the strength nor the angle to sink the knife into the man’s throat.