Chapter 1 (The Butcher — scene 2)
Chapter 1 (scene two)
In the midst of the rubble of what was once a door, the metal grieves stormed around the butcher. But much to everyone’s surprise, the butcher continued to chisel the flesh across the cattle’s humerus.
The room was filled with men, but everyone was overtaken by silence, and the lone sound of cleaver and flesh were the only instruments playing.
Sir Duke was repulsed by the gore, piles of flesh on one side, and bone on the other. He watched the butcher wield the clever with finesse; it was a bit of a muse to watch a professional cut with such precision. But it was much more than that, for that clever in butchers hand was not any ordinary metal, it was forged and sharpened by the butcher himself. He did not tinker with inadequate steel composed by amateurs.
The rude guest made his first move, and the curious butcher gave him an opportunity to make another.
The brute glanced at the would-be-victims, but through the edge of his brows, the numbers around him were like chess pieces he played with all of his life, he knew which one was going to make which move, in fact he calculated all of the moves, and none fared well for those around him. The index finger tapped across the cleavers tip, he contemplated to fulfill his hunger, but he had a half a mind to listen to the snarling imbecile that called himself Sire Duke. The brute waited patiently and absorbed the moment; in fact he began to savor every bit of it. Too long has this feeling been absent, and finally, its back. After so many dormant years, his heart finally began to race once more.
In-between Sire Dukes left breast and arm was a scroll from the Royal court. He pulled it out and began to read. “By the Royal court of Littlefort town, the butcher also recognized as John Westminster, shall relinquish his duty as butcher and accompany the kings guard to face the treacherous act of treason for missing the princess blue holiday celebration.”
However, the brute had no mind to accept or acknowledge the kings guard, instead he continued his duty and calmly carved the carcass. Such action infuriated Sire Duke; he turned a several shades of pink and began to splurge more than just words of vile. While Sire Duke eloquently illustrated what he was going to do to the butcher, it also appears he had climaxed the brute’s tolerance, it was right around the word that he lingered on, it was almost tune like, “hang”.
The rant did wonders for Sire Duke, he was so proud of himself; such an act emboldened him around his men. Yet he still failed to strike a chord with the butcher, for the butcher had another direction he wanted to take that conversation. He flicked his blood soaked finger at the magistrates face. It was so silent yet as each drop made contact with Dukes face, each one made a clear and distinctive sound that was hardly audible, but it made all the noise.
Sire Duke gasped as the blood smeared across his face for he couldn’t believe such an act. And whatever previous thought he had in mind surely switched into a much different mode. He went from a pompous buffoon to an enraged chirping parrot that was ready to have the butchers head before trial. He boldly scolded the brute that towered over him by miles, but it did not matter, he did not take kindly to those who gave him even the slightest disrespect, and he had every intention of letting the butcher know it.
But much to everyone’s surprise, the chirp stopped, well except the butcher. The kings guard glanced at their silent leader only to find that he had a bone javelined all the way through the side of his neck.
The moment that everyone glanced at their leader was an eternity for the butcher; he began to conduct a symphony with his beloved cleaver.
The center of the room became his chessboard, and the soon-to-be-victims were his pawns. Those poor kings guard stood no chance in such close proximity to the veteran’s blade. The king’s guard trained for years, they were the elite amongst the elite, yet their training proved worthless beside a true master of the blade. However, to the kings guard credit, they did pull off a valiant effort, an effort that was composed of desperate attempts to escape. But to no avail, within a matter of a couple of seconds the room filled with a few inches of blood.
The butcher wielded that clever like an artisan painter, and with each stroke he painted a crimson portrait, depicting a story he had envisioned moments before a single foot entered his domain, and it was just as he envisioned it, bloody.
Revisiting old habits would once again exile him from yet another town. But who was he kidding, he couldn’t start a new life, not there and not as a butcher of animals, for he knew exactly what he was, a butcher of men.