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Twice upon time the forces of evil converged on the tiny hamlet of Gurp-on-Tunib. This particular conflagration of civilization consisted of one tavern, a statue so old and worn nobody could recall whom it honored, a one bedroom hovel belonging to the mayor, the root shack, and five pig farms in the surrounding boggy plains. One could say that its relative strategic and economic importance to the realm at large was somewhere above nonexistent but below measly.

The first instance of evil descending on the poor folk here was three generations before the time of Ullum the Gray, in the first shade of Winter. The mercenary forces of Ptoobo were marching from West to East, intent on sacking the port city of Yim. The Right and Proper Horde, as they called themselves at the time, were traveling from Northeast to Southwest, having it in their heads to search out Pixish treasures in the forests to the South of the lands of man. Gurp-on-Tunib was inconsequential to all of this, but the two groups happened to meet there.

The groups bristled. Taunts were made. The leaders met under a flag of truce. Meanwhile, a certain number of pigs went missing, with locals too afraid to make any accusations of theft. In the end, the two rampaging armies joined forces and proceeded East, which is why the port city of Yim is no longer on the map. Of course, no blame for this was ever ascribed to Gurp-on-Tunib.

One generation after the fall of Ullum the Gray a torrential rain besieged the entire region. Nothing much happened. One pig drowned. One village drowned as well, but the pig was more sorely mourned on account of the villager having been a complete twit.

Two generations after the fall of Ullum the Gray, in a gentle misting of Spring rain, evil converted once again upon the hamlet, though this time in markedly smaller numbers. Two. The number of evil was two.  

Ducking out of the light rain a bulky, cloaked figure entered the tavern. He paused, seemed to take in the small room consisting of the bar, two small round tables, and one booth under the far window. He opted for the booth and trudged across the dirt floor with heavy tread. All the while he muttered under his breath right up until he plopped himself down to quiet, patient contemplation.

The barkeep stayed back, waiting for some sign that his patron wanted service. This was only his side job, so he didn't feel the need to push the issue. Primarily he was a pig farmer, although he considered himself more of a pig baron, having a partial ownership in several nearby pig farms. 

In due course, a lanky fellow came jangling in, plates of armor scraping and clanging off each other as he went directly to the booth. The larger man signaled the barkeep who in turn brought two wooden cups and a pitcher of mead. After a slight pause during which the two men said nothing, the barkeep retreated to behind the bar, making a point of keeping himself busy and looking as much as possible as though he were not paying attention. Even though he was.

The larger man poured generously into the two cups, ?Tis not often that I get an invitation from no less than a prince for a sit down. Most hoighty-toighty types ain't got the stomach fer the likes of a half-orc mercenary.?

The taller man scoffed and took his cup, ?First of all, you know my title is self-bestowed, self-claimed through more violence and treachery than such types could manage. Secondly, by reputation you're more assassin than mercenary.? He took a large draw from the cup, ?Finally, the way I hear it, you're more like three-quarters orc. The other fourth is in question.?

?That it is, friend,? he chuckled back, ?That is, if I may call you friend? Or shall we follow courtesies of the court, your royal highness, Prince Chargham of Lowland East??

?Matters little to me, but Chargham will do.?

?Eh, but not your other monker, The Charred?? The brutish fellow leaned forward, exposing a broad smile of uneven, bulky teeth.

His companion leaned forward into the dim light of the table's candle, showing the rippling scars that encompassed his neck, chin, and left cheek, ?Never one for manners, were you, Mr Bib??

Another chuckle, ?Nope, can't say that I am. They don't do me much good. Very few pleases and thank you's when cutting a man's throat.?

Leaning back again, the dark prince turned thoughtful, considering the brute, ?I do hope you can do more than slit a man's throat, or I've wasted my time.?

?I can bash in a skull.?

The prince nodded.

?I can crush a man's ribcage.?

The prince nodded.

?I've slipped a bit o' poison, when the situation demanded.?

The prince sipped his mead and nodded again, looking not at all impressed.

?I can run a man through like he was made o' butter.?

A sigh.

?I can decapitate a man in one swing, unless he be really tall. Then it's a funny angle, usually takes two swipes.?

Nothing.

?If I must, now I ain't sayin' it's a keen interest of my own, but I can open a man up, leave him alive fer a bit, torture-like, ya see.?

Fingers interlaced, the prince leaned forward, ?Mr Bib, you do boast so, but I need the other thing. The darker thing.?

?That'll cost you more than you's like to give up.?

The two men stared at one another. Mr Bib drained his cup and poured another. The prince did the same. Mr Bib motioned for the barkeep to bring more, which he did, both men sitting in silence as the empty pitcher was replaced with a full one.

?Can you really do it, kill a man and burn his soul in the process, reduce him and his eternal essence to nothing??

?Tis not a common service, and it?exacts a toll, shall we say. But aye, as advertised, I'm one of the few to have mastered the kill of kills.?

The prince refilled his own cup, and Mr Bib could have sworn there was the slightest tremor in that hand. The man was getting on in years, but still, this was the hand that had slain kings and queens, and brought mighty generals and knights to their knees. Such a hand would not tremble.

?Does such a kill require any preparation? Any great time before the deed is done??

Mr Bib shook his head, ?Nay. Tis simple enough and more a matter of the rest afterward.?

?Name your price.?

?You won't pay it.?

?Name it.?

After another drink, Mr Bib said carefully, ?I hear tell what you have a bit of a bauble, a trinket. The Star of the Priestess, some call it. And I hear tell you wears it all the day long, all the night, on account of it being a special protection charm. A powerful one. Might even be how you so uncannily done risen to your esteemed title, such as it is.?

The prince nodded, ?So that is your price? You seek the star, as so many others have??

More chuckling, ?Aye, if I'm to deal with the dark prince, may it be a big deal, eh??

With very little pause, the prince said simply, ?Done.?

Mr Bib spluttered and choked on his drink. He slammed his massive fist on the table several times while he cleared his throat, sounding more like a water buffalo than a skilled killer. He waved off the bartender's approach and considered the prince carefully while regaining his breath. There was no hint of humor or doubt in the long face.

So, the brute was left only to ask, ?Who??

?Me.?

Fortunately, Mr Bib had not taken another swig, or he would have had to repeat the whole noisy process again. As it was he could only sit dumbly and stare across the table the half-light. Across the small room, the barkeep was trying hard to contain his own reaction, lest his eavesdropping be all the more obvious.

?When??

?As soon as the deal is struck. On this I must insist, once the deal is made, you must do it immediately. Understood.?

Mr Bib nodded, thought a moment, then ventured, ?Why??

The prince sighed, ?I believe it best you don't know. Second thoughts??

?I never back out of a deal,? came the huffy reply, ?You hand over the star, I'll do you right on the spot.?

?Right, let's get this over with,? the prince rose to his feet, the shock of black hair on his head brushing the low rafters. From within the neck of his shirt he tugged a necklace, pulling free a circular pendant that filled the palm of his hand, a red gem glistening in the firelight.

Mr Bib stood, looking wary and solemn, ?Alright then, hand it over, yer highness.?

?No hesitation. Are we clear??

?Crystal,? he replied with a shrug, though he still looked about the room nervously, seeking out every shadow and corner for some sign of treachery or trap.

?Ready??

?Cripes, yes. Great gobs, ya nutter.?

The prince yanked on the amulet, causing the chain to snap at the back of his neck. He thrust it forward into the waiting hand of Mr. Bib, saying with no small intensity, ?Now, man. Do it now!?

The center of the room erupted in ominous red and yellow light, a circle of flame inscribing itself in the floor. From within the circle rose a cackling orange-skinned beast in the shape of a man, though it sported curling horns about its head and threadbare wings that hung folded at its back. A yellow smile that seemed wider than the face upon which it stretched greeted the patrons and the barkeep.

A silky voice emanated from the creature, though its mouth did not move, ?Chargham, you crafty fool. All this time, but now here you are, exposed, your soul over-ripe for the taking.?

Mr Bib stood slack jawed, the amulet warm in his hand. The barkeep passed out and fell over behind the bar. 

?Now! Do it now!? The prince showed a flash of fear on his face, a face that had been impassive before so many duels, battles, and even a trial.

Saying nothing, Mr Bib pulled a dagger from some unseen sheath, holding it level towards the beast. The candlelight flickered about its serpentine blade and angular facets. The creature took a step towards them, long arms sweeping such that its claws scraped the floor.

?Not against it, you fool. Me. Kill me now!?

Mr Bib shrugged, spared one last worried look for the creature, and plunged the dagger into the prince's gut. Though his large hands looked clumsy, they were in fact quite skilled, and threaded the blade through the plates of armor to meet flesh. As he felt it sink deep, Mr Bib spared a glance for the creature now raising its arms high, glowing yellow eyes trained maliciously on the prince. Under his breath, he said the words required, willed his essence to complete the spell, and white light erupted from the stab wound.

The creature paused. Mr Bib tumbled back in the midst of a tiny maelstrom of unearthly wind and light. The prince, a triumphant smile on his marred visage, caught fire with a blue flame that clung closely about his body for a fraction of a second before consuming him to white ash that fluttered down like so much snow.

As Mr Bib scrambled to his feet again, amulet in one hand, dagger in the other, the creature stood with drooped arms, smile faded, ?That was terribly, terribly rude. He sold me his soul eons ago, been hiding it from me ever since.?

?S-sorry,? Mr Bib ventured.

The creature shrugged and slumped back towards the bar, asking calmly as it leaned over it, ?You, uh, mind if I take this one??

?No business of mine,? Mr Bib answered, still gripping the amulet and blade tightly.

The creature's long arm swooped over the bar and dragged the barkeep up. It slung the unconscious body over its shoulder and stepped to the circle, taking a careful look around the room. The smile came back to its full strength while the glowing eyes gazed upon Mr Bib.

?You needn't worry,? it teased, ?Keep that fancy-fancy about you, and you've nothing to fear from me or mine.?

?And that fellow then?? He pointed at the barkeep with his dagger.

The creature gave a nod towards the man, ?This one? Sold his soul for?what was it? Pig farms, I think. Collection is a bit early, but I hate to come up for nothing.?

?Pig farms??

The creature shrugged, ?You'd be surprised how small some people dream. What, pray tell, do you dream of??

?I'm quite content.?

?Suit yourself, but if you change yourself just call for Azmuel.?

The circle of flame in the floor ignited once again. With a whoosh, the creature and the barkeep slid down into shadow, gone without further trace. Mr Bib collapsed to the floor, seating his ample posterior in the dirt. His one loosened its grip on the dagger, letting it tile and rest on his leg. The other hand, going white at the knuckles, kept firm hold of the Star of the Priestess.

Note: This is an older piece, but I didn't have the energy to spin a new one this week. Feedback is appreciated, and please pardon this one for not being as up to par. It very loosely fits the prompt.

 

[Please listen to Opening, by Craig Armstrong while reading]

 

It had just been this quiet, low melody following her. Through the market, through the alleys, along the canal, everywhere. It drove her mad, and just like anything else, she wouldn't stop until she found the source, traipsing all around the foreign town, listening. She felt like she had been walking for hours and hours, past iron-wrought gates and through ivy-covered archways, feet making no sound on the cobbled, mossy street. 

 

Surely a place like this had magic set into each and every stone she stepped on, but that melody was maddening, drawing her closer and closer to? something. She just hoped it wasn't an evil magic, though she knew it was an ancient one. People just seemed to glance knowingly at her, and she vaguely wondered if they'd followed the melody too. Part of her wanted to ask, but the other parts wanted this to herself- a harmless adventure through the prettiest place she'd been in a while. Whatever fate was meant to befall her, it was hers alone.

 

And then it stopped. It stopped just outside a garden gate, the iron bars twisting themselves into a symbol she couldn't place, roses and feathers intricately guarding a small garden. Before she reached it, the gate swung open, creaking softly on rusted hinges, and when she stepped slowly past it, it swung shut behind her, the latch clicking almost in a friendly way. When she looked up, the scene surrounding her was something pulled straight out of a fairy tale, ink and paper tossed about and settled into reality. Her heart ached with an unknown nostalgia, her eyes struggling to take it in. Drooping blue flowers perfumed the air with their scent, and she swore she'd smelled it before, something between lillies and cotton. The sun was filtering gently through a tree, casting soft shadows and rays on the cobblestone, a calm and filling silence floating on the breeze. 

 

That was when she saw the statue. It was a tall, slender woman, her draped dress cascading as if blown by a stolen breeze. The statue's hair was braided into elaborate coils and twists with a laurel wreath rested gently on her head, a hand gently outstretched to point to a nearby shed. She stopped, following the delicate curve of the statue's arm. A direction at last. She found herself following the instructions, mesmerized and feeling as if she were in a trance, being strung along by some unseen magician's hand. 

 

The door was unlocked. And as fate would have it, the melody called to her again, pulling her down the winding staircase, beckoning for her to follow the magic-filled nothingness deeper and deeper underground. The winding staircase stopped at a set of dark wooden doors, each detailed with minute carvings and gold accents. Here, the air felt sharper, charged with magic, charged with? longing. Was it her own? Everything was laced with the gold-green translucency of a cat's eye, there, but not quite, as if her brain was still debating for her to see it or not. She longed for it, she needed it; she couldn't even name it. This felt right. This felt like fate, like God, like? like love, if she dare say it. The golden carvings set in the mahogany wood shivered, trembled, and began to tick. It vaguely reminded her of a bomb. Or a piece of insanely intricate clockwork With a soft creak and a bit of dust, the doors swung open, revealing?  nothing. Nothing but the blackness of the Abyss staring back at her, drowning her in ebony and steel until the light flooded the place. Light. Glorious, beautiful light. It scattered the terribly comforting darkness and left her alone in the room full of song and light. Suddenly everything was stone, the iron and wood changing to sculpted marble. Carvings of vines and roses traced their way across the ceiling, but that wasn't what drew her- it was the music. It was light and dark at the same time, and it sent her head spinning, the way it rose and fell, the parts laughing and crying together. The harmony was soaked, dripping in the minor key, a twisted thorn just below the rose that was her maddening melody. It was floating, flying on a clear sky, caressing her cheek and grabbing her hand, pulling her deeper and deeper into this magical place. 

 

It felt like a dream, the harmony seeming feather-light, the melody pushing against it with its darker, glass-green water, deep and nameless. The music was as thick and rich as velvet, violins and piano conversing mournfully, a dark, almost dreary mood settling to every stone tile in what seemed to be an underground theatre. But then a harp, soft and hopeful, edged its way in, followed by a flute, and just like that, she was soaring, the troubles of the real world far and unimportant She just wanted to drown in this, to bottle the sound and drink the glass dry. More than anything, she wanted to stay. To stay in this exquisite place, with its dark oak doors and gold handles, with its iron gate and elegant statue. Most of all, she wanted to let her heart free, away from everything she'd known, casting it into this deep well of pure magic. But then the melody stopped, not even an echo sounding back to her. And just as simply as if deciding what to wear, she found herself believing in magic again. How could she not? This was something made of the heart and hands, something born from more than the standard normality of life. Standing under the carved, arched ceiling, she made a promise. She would keep this splendor, this sliver of heaven, safe. But for now? Nobody had to know except her.