Can the blood that flows within escape as it congeals and clots, hardening the soul and weighing down the spirit until the bones of little children break and death becomes the escape of choice? With the weapon of the tongue, he becomes the master of his craft, using the weapon to pierce and tear at the soul and hearts. Lunging forth at its victims to cut between the bone and the marrow, continuing to slice at the wounds until they are no longer able to heal until the scars stack deeper than the sword itself.
Its daily reward to its victims was an inescapable token of fear, and a pat on the back for living another day without showing your wounds to the world. A job well done indeed, as the children’s tears fill the skin bottles in the empty rooms of their hearts, love becomes the light that shines only briefly, in the dark room with only tokens and bottles to keep them company.