and that first wicked evil stepped back.

Descending from the flame, a large frame of armour waved its arm about. As conjured, a great sword, black and skulled at the hilt, appeared in his hand. If you could see beneath his dark visor, you could tell he approved.

And his voice roared as loudly, with as much demonic force as the first, echoing a simple phrase.

“Thanks.”

And at that, his hand tightened on the blade, and his arm swung out towards his creator. The sword sliced through his exposed neck. Rolling off to the side, blood spraying out from the stump, the head crashed down to the floor. Alas, before it could make contact, his being evaporated into the air. Nolonger physical, and completely at vapour, it rose up in hopes of an escape.

The laughter, it came once more. Aiming his sword at the cloud, the armoured one sang a soft tune, “Kommen Sie zu mir Seele”.

A vacuum of air broke forth from the tip of his sword, and the soul flew straight into the blade. The eyes of the skull on the hilt glew red