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Made in us
Splattered With Acrylic Paint






Skretch sunk his claw deep into the bark of his hidden perch. Frustration seeped into the wood. It was as if the suffering of the old oak would be some escape for the torrent of emotion pent up inside of him. He peered down at the campfire below, watching with a furious focus as the man things moved about, completely unaware of his presence.

He had originally counted eight men. Seven soldiers and a peculiar old man who had no hair on his head and wore dark tattered robes that had obviously been abused by long bouts of travel. Skretch felt a hint of satisfaction as there were only six men left around the campfire. The missing two having already met silent, brutal ends.

Skretch watched as the men bickered amongst themselves. When the argument reached its climax, the old man stood abruptly pulling out a large damp burlap sack from behind him. Skretch shifted his weight uncomfortably as he watched the old man reach inside and pull out a severed head, brandishing it to his onlookers. Skretch wrapped his tail around his branch so tightly that he thought it would have snapped. Even in the darkness of the night there was no mistaking the head he held aloft.

Two of the soldiers began to laugh and spat mocking comments at the old man. The youngest of the group looked sick and afraid of the disfigured head. The old man grumbled as he put the head back into the sack. He dropped the sack to the ground with a loud, hollow thud. He proceeded to franticly rummage through his travel bag, emerging seconds later brandishing something wrapped in cloth. He unwrapped it delicately and held a curved short sword in his hands, displaying it to the now silent onlookers. He handled it with the care and efficiency that a mother would handle a newborn. He took special care to ensure that a piece of fabric separated his skin from the blade.

Skretch felt a wave of fury swell up inside of him. His rage radiated like a burning fire that would consume the world. His claw unconsciously grasped the empty scabbard slung across his back. He peered down at his stolen prized possession. The handle, black as the darkest night. The blade shone like a sliver of moonlight, cutting through the darkness and campfire light. Its reflection beamed up at Skretch and he felt the blade calling to him like a lover who was separated from her soulmate.

“I’ll kill them all” he hissed under his breath. “I’ll Kill them all”.

Two of the soldiers began to whisper to themselves, trying to make heads or tails of what they had just seen. The youngest soldier stumbled to his feet and scurried over to a nearby tree where he looked as though he was going to be sick. He braced himself up right, took a deep breath and shook his head. After catching his composure, he turned back towards the fire. He took a step and stopped. Skretch watched as the young whelp’s face twisted with pure terror. The boy’s glossy eyes went wide as they locked with Skretch’s own. Skretch let a large sneer run across his pointed face, his fangs brandishing against the firelight down below.

“Kill them all” he hissed to himself amusingly, “Kill them all”.
   
 
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