The Butcher crashed through a set of shutters, landed on the sinfully soft carpet of a lovely living room and rolled on the hardwood floor until he bumped into a plush loveseat, which in turn bumped against a small table supporting an expensive-looking tea set.

"OH, GOD IN HEAVEN!"

Unsurprisingly, the tea set, already teetering close to the table's edge, lost its fierce battle against gravity and dropped to the floor, smashing into a million tiny pieces. He scrambled back to his feet among the shards of porcelain, grinning a loony grin. An angry canine roar sounded from the street, followed by the pounding steps of something unreasonably heavy. It was getting closer.

A graying woman in the twilight years of her life, dressed in a fluffy bathrobe and some type of funny cap, sat on the loveseat next to the Butcher. She took a deep breath, readying herself for another earsplitting scream. The Butcher swung his short sword without looking and drew a red smile across her wrinkled throat.

With a lovely croak, the old lady in her funny cap fell from her throne of fluff and pillows onto the floor. She crawled away from the Ferryman of Death, leaving a blood trail on the carpet as she went, twitching around like a panicked crab.

She didn't get far.

Okoro Acheampong, the werewolf of Mashkan-shapir, hopped over the very recently deceased homeowner's rose plantings and burst right through the window frame the Butcher had jumped through. The loup-garou landed on the old lady's corpse, making a complete mess of the Butcher's fine work.

Splinters of wood bounced from the walls, and a dust cloud swirled around the werewolf, glowing like gold in the first rays of a new dawn.

No finesse. No appreciation for the subtle touches good knife-work requires. The Butcher sighed in mock disappointment. I guess I will need to teach him, with spells and steel. He spun up a lance of flame with a telekinetic spike hiding inside of it, and sent it flying at the beast's furry forehead. Okoro ducked to the best of his ability. The lance dug a bloody furrow into the side of the wolf's head, chipping away fragments of bone, before it glanced off and sank into the beast's shoulder.

The foul smell of burning fur choked the air, and Okoro screamed in pain. A decidedly inhuman sound, but who was the Butcher to judge? Inhuman was, after all, entirely in his wheelhouse. Murder-proud and completely mad, the Butcher faced the wolf, cleaver and short word in hand.

"Aw. Did the mean flame hurt your itty bitty feelings?" he asked, feigning sympathy. "Come here, fleabag. Uncle Butcher will make the pain go away. Permanently."

Okoro stared at him, blinking his bloodshot eyes. "I will teach you a lesson about pain, Oak of the Northlands," the werewolf growled and stalked forward, minding his already healing shoulder. "With tooth and claw, I will engrave it in your tasty flesh."

"Ooh, how exciting! The mutt can speak!" The Butcher did a happy little dance, twirling his blades, head lolling from side to side. "But I'm afraid Oak is indisposed at the moment. The Slaughterman will have to do."

"Whoever you are, I will kill you and rape your corpse!" Okoro roared and trampled the carpet as he charged across the living room, baring his teeth.

My, my. I might be in love.

***

A dozen meatbags, marching to the beat, the shadows whispered. Glistening helms on their heads and steel boots on their feet.

Okoro galloped on the cobbles like the hounds of hell were snapping at his burning tail, which they were. The Good Doggy raced across the rooftops above, easily keeping up with the merry chase. Not that the Butcher was far behind, either. A mere twenty feet long stretch of road separated him from his lupine prey. He smiled as he ran, already delighting in the coming liveliness.

There was a patrol of guards around the next corner. And Okoro had no idea. What a lovely surprise this is going to be for both sides.

Two vagrants sat in the shade offered by the buildings on his left, nursing an impressive hangover. They squinted after the fleeing werewolf with disbelieving eyes. "Are you seeing what I am seeing, Abdul?" the shorter and fatter of the men asked and rubbed his eyes.

"I'm afraid so," Abdul replied. The vagrant snatched one of the many empty bottles of liquor lying at the pair's feet and examined it with a critical eye as the Butcher ran past. "Is…is this a sign that we should lay off the drink for a while? What do you think?"

"Erm, let's not get hasty now. Surely not? I mean, we are not alcoholics, or anything, right?"

"Right. Of course not. Definitely not."

The Butcher felt a slight twinge of sadness over not having the time to slaughter the pathetic meatbags, but the promise of extravagant bloodletting ahead roused his spirits. Okoro turned the corner at breakneck speed, claws skidding on the smooth cobbles, and slid across the street like a donkey tapdancing on a riverbed full of slick rocks. The huge werewolf barely avoided a collision with a brick wall and continued his mad dash away from the Butcher's tender mercies.

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"Sweet Seraphim!" The male scream echoed from around the corner to the Butcher's appreciative ear. No surprise there. It was hard to miss a giant wolf rushing at you in pure daylight, especially if the furball was on fire. Still, he was happy to note the men serving the House of Omman were not deaf or blind.

Killing cripples was no fun at all.

Expletives from a dozen throats filled the early morning air, followed by the telltale sound of armored men being smashed aside and trampled like toddlers trying to wrestle an angry ox. The Butcher jogged around the corner at a moderate pace and surveyed the damage.

The patrol lay about the clean and tidy street, flung around like a child's discarded toys. His gaze followed the winding path made of men in mail trying to get back on their shaky legs until his eyes landed on the prize; Okoro Acheampong stood on the street past the patrol, trying his best to dislodge a poleaxe from his chest.

A hard task for one with no opposable thumbs, but Okoro had shown he was nothing if not resilient to the bitter end. The werewolf struggled mightily, snout twisted in a snarl, but the polearm refused to budge.

The Butcher cocked his head and stroked the handles of his blades. A professional always chooses the right tool for the job, and he was an expert of his craft. Yes, the falchion will do. He pulled the two-handed sword from its sheath and ran his palm along the flat of the long blade, wetting his lips. It will more than do. It will excel.

Seven steps and a flick of his wrist yielded the first kill of many. Blood spewed from the dead meat's throat onto the Butcher's boots, soaking them wet. The nostalgic feeling reminded him of other moments of glory, written in red. "I am the Slaughterman, the Ferryman of Death!" The Butcher laughed in rapturous delight and chopped off another guardsman's head, while the walking corpse was trying and failing to find his bearings. The poor thing must have taken a rough tumble when Okoro ran him over. "Die, fools! Die and cherish your fate!"

A man with a fancier helm than the rest got to his feet around the middle of the guards strewn about formation and pointed his poleaxe at the Butcher. "Men. Kill that fucker."

The Butcher grinned. It was nice to face a meatbag who took initiative.

What followed was a comedy of errors for the guardsmen and a veritable feast of red ruin for the Flesher. Muscles parted, tendons snapped and bones broke under the weight of Elven steel and infernal might. Training, good armor, and admirable courage could not hold a candle to madness and savagery.

I am the blizzard scouring the high peaks; the desert heat bleaching bone. The Butcher caught a downward strike from a poleaxe by the handle, just under the blade, and yanked the man holding the weapon close enough to elbow him viciously in the throat. A vulgar crunch sounded from the meeting of elbow and windpipe, and the man toppled, wheezing and clutching at his neck.

I am the hangman feeding the gallows tree; the blood-soaked fist crushing dreams and splattering skulls.

From the first swing of his blade to the last, every cut flowed to another, like water down the rapids. The corpses fell around him, kneeling in supplication, hands outstretched to touch his boots or the leg of his trousers. They sought a final blessing from their messiah, a parting gift to aid them across the mortal coil.

The Butcher had an appropriate blessing in mind. Wet eyes glistening with joy, he approached the last meatbag still standing. The fellow with the fancy helm showed rare strength of spirit and faced the killer of his underlings head-on.

"I am Abd ar-Rahim of the House of Salim." The dead meat planted his feet, poleaxe aimed at the Butcher's heart. His brown eyes were calm, and his hands did not waver. "Who are you, monster?"

Interesting. Usually, the prattling of a walking corpse held no intrigue for the Butcher, but today he felt whimsical enough to answer. Courage deserves a modicum of respect.

"I have many names, meatbag. I am the kiss of the knife and the rattle of the last breath. The Slaughterman. The Flesher in the flesh. I am the Butcher of all that dwells in the Garden of the Corpse-God."

Having observed the niceties, Abd ar-Rahim of the House of Salim nodded and struck. First a thrust towards the Butcher's throat, followed by a sideways chop at his ribs. He exhibited excellent technique and control over his weapon.

Brave and technical, but uninspired.

Like a mouse bobbing and weaving, the Butcher dodged the thrust and dove under the chop. Like a bear charging, the Butcher drove his shoulder into the meatbag's hips, hugged his legs in a deathgrip and bowled the man over.

This close, both poleaxe and falchion were of no use.

Abd ar-Rahim showed the depth of his training and went for the dagger on his belt, quick as a snake, but the Butcher caught his wrist all the same. Knives were the tools of his trade. None could draw one on him by surprise. The Butcher wriggled and wrestled until he could look his struggling victim straight in the eye. He needed to see that precious light extinguished.

"I will not beg for my life, wretch." Abd ar-Rahim spat on the Butcher's face.

Lips stretched in a rictus grin, the Butcher grabbed hold of Abd ar-Rahim's helmed head and smashed it against the cobbles. Then he did it again, and again. The meatbag's hand, still in his grip, twitched feebly towards the dagger. Another smash did the trick, and the man lay still, unconscious, but alive.

How pretty a corpse you will make, Abd ar-Rahim of House Salim. So fit for my purposes. The Butcher carried Abd ar-Rahim to his fallen men, pulled out his hunting knife, and addressed the corpses.

"Let none say the Slaughterman does not provide for his congregation," he said and cut Abd ar-Rahim's throat. Cadaver in one hand and bloody knife in the other, he walked over the kneeling corpses, rewarding their supplication with a sprinkling of red. "The blood stains and baptizes in equal measure. Be ye hollow vessels, soulless and lifeless, but hallowed in death."

All twelve were now beautiful and still, rendered back to the dust from whence they came.

"What in the Hells is the matter with you, you fucking lunatic?" Okoro asked. The Butcher turned, his already high spirits soaring to new heights. The werewolf had ripped the poleaxe from his chest and stared at the Butcher and the circle of corpses arranged in unholy rite and ritual.

They could continue their little game at last.

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