Ol' Flint the Crow

The Worm Turns

Gert burst open the doors with a flourish. The sounds of Flint screaming in pain traveled with the man bringing a wicked smile across his coiled lips. He just could not help but snicker at every yelp the tortured bird made in the next room.

"Music to my ears!" he said to Richter.

The grinning warlock waltz over to a wood table and dropped his supply bag on top of it. Digging through its contents one by one, he placed all manner of evil tools in an orderly row. Embalming knives, serrated needles, a whip, and an iron poker were just a few of the horrible instruments he had with him. As he did this, Gert would hum to the crow's pitiful cries.

Hissing at the man, Bleak tried to tear herself out of the chair. "Shut up!"

Gert simply scoffed. He grasped a black knife with a thin blade, and twirled it in his nimble fingers.

"Tam-dum," the man hummed. This he did as he happily skipped closer to the barmaid while leering at her. "Da-dum-dum!"

"Arrgh!!!" a heart wrenching scream shook the very walls of the barn.

Samuel shivered at what that dastardly torture devise was doing to poor Flint.

"La-da-dee-la-do!" sang Gert.

Bleak gritted her teeth; and, as the man neared her with the knife, she threatened him saying, "When I get out of these bounds, I'm gonna kill you! I swear I will!"

"I don't think you'll be doing anything, my lady." Gert's putrid breath curled Bleak's nostrils. "So how about you stay still, and let me enjoy my fun. If you don't struggle, I promise not to let you suffer for too long. But if you act difficult, hehe... This is going to be fun!"

The warlock seized Bleak by the cheekbones and shoved the knife dangerously close to her left eye. The blade drew nearer and nearer making Richter's stomach churn in agony. This threat of her eyes being pecked out caused Bleak's forehead to dribble with sweat. Fear was taking over the once brave woman. Pretty soon, she would crack.

"Hey!" Samuel wobbled in his chair making as big of a ruckus as he could. "Warlock! You really enjoy hurting little animals, poor children, and even innocent women! Huh?!"

Rubbing the knife handle lovingly, Gert replied, "Yeah."

"Heartless bastard! Why don't you pick on somebody who deserves it?!"

"But that's no fun." The warlock's lips pouted. His blade was only a hair's length to Bleak's eye. "I'd much rather play with this lady."

Samuel didn't know what else to do but spew all manner of insults at Gert. "Inane elk ass! I can't even begin to guess how you became a warlock! You certainly do not have the intelligence for it. I've known a great many brilliant doctors and scientist back in college, and they all said the same thing, 'Warlock's are dimwitted charlatans that rely on people's assumptions and ignorance to make their unworthy living'."

Although, Gert arrogantly scoffed in reply, his fingers loosened from their hold on the sharp object. Deep in his heart his pride had been hurt.

The minstrel kept talking. "You're nothing but a blood sucker, leeching off of Princess Tabitha. Are you her lap dog? Her little puppy bitch?! Don't you have the spine to make it on your own merit without her pulling your strings?"

"You'll have to do better than that," the warlock glanced over his shoulder at the minstrel. "Any child born in the gutter could make a harsher insult."

Samuel racked through his brain, trying to find a real crushing gibe; yet for the life of him he could think of nothing. If only he had Flint's mouth. That bird was a true expert on such matters; unlike Samuel who could not help but say his words with such hesitance due to his mannerly upbringing.