by Scáth Beorh
They come in whenever they desire. They are terrified of something, though. The sword. When they enter through the main door or front window, they skirt around the blade which hangs over the hearth, frightened as if it were a serpent. When they settle into the room, leaning, sitting, they won’t look at it, and if they do, it is only with cautious glances, as if the magnificent thing will strike them should they move too close to it. Then they begin to vomit their blasphemies, and I am forced to take it from the wall.
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