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"Not sharp enough," thinks Bloodhound as they poke the edge of the wooden spear with their bare finger. Without a drop of red appearing, they can't be satisfied that this will stop anyone. They pick up their knife again, the firelight flashing orange across it, and continue whittling.
The wood glides away from the spear point, shavings flying to the ground in a pile that will make excellent kindling. Such a peaceful and powerful exercise, they think, remembering the village elders who would sit upon their stoops and carve in their spare time while passing tales back and forth with neighbors. Blóðhundr would spend many a night leaning on Artur's porch, listening to the gossip of the forest: a golden stag, shining in the dawn with more points than a starry sky; better hatchpin roots for harvesting than any year before; a lava flow that Katla could put her bare feet on, swear to the gods!; a river that runs backwards when you sing and are heavily drunk.
"Still not sharp enough."
But now, the only words that fall from elders' mouths are praise and damnation. The land weeps, the beasts fight as if always cornered, and the skies turn dark as soil while the ground rumbles in thunder, crying after so many shocks. One new word sits in bitterness on the village's ancient tongue: Hammond.
"Ghhhhhhh-chk," says the knife, running along the spear point.
Interlopers who see the land as profit-
"Ghhhhhhh-chk."
Taming that which should know no leash-
"Ghhhhhhh-chk."
Damming rivers, razing forests, poisoning the world and kicking people into the sludge. A lamprey with teeth upon teeth, severing bonds and digging graves and soaking up the blood of the suffering-
"Ghhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh-CHK!"
And what do you do with a monster in the shadows? You track it down, find where it hides, and drive a spear through its heart. You stop sitting in glory and watching from the sidelines. You realize that those who came before want nothing of your accomplishments if they come at the cost of your people. You drink the bitterness of reality, even when it comes from the most brazen and uncomfortable voices.
"You sharpened that enough, mutt, or do I have to help you with that too?" says Mad Maggie, spitting over the porch railing.
Every word from her is disgraceful, crass, abrasive, and enraging, like the beer that crosses the threshold of "one too many". Maggie's song is a prose full of bloody noses, dislocated joints, soar throats, and called bluffs. If Bloodhound needed a negotiator, they'd look for her opposite, but diplomacy is dead and buried.
They start to address her: "Margaret-"
But she cuts them off: "That's 'Maggie' to you."
"Would you rather I call you 'Peggy'? Walter seemed to suggest that was significant to you."
"You call me 'Peggy' and they'll be calling this village's excuse for a morgue."
"I will keep that in mind," says Bloodhound, sneaking a smile under their mask, "To answer your question, we are almost ready."
"Got ya fire bombs?" asks Maggie, flicking an annoying snowflake off of her eyebrow.
"Sufficiently bottled and packed," says Bloodhound.
"And gas masks for everyone else?"
"Cleaned and inspected by my own hands."
"Ammunition stocked?"
"Fully."
"Boots ready for asses?"
"Ghhhhhhhh-chk," says Bloodhound's blade.
"Always," says Bloodhound, a bite in their reply that could easily be seen as ferocity. But, deep down, it is a distaste for everything running across Maggie's face: excitement, eagerness, and pure joy. She sips down the anticipation like refreshing mead and has no limit. This assault is a regular Tuesday for Maggie, but for Bloodhound…
It's a deep regret. They think about all the praise the elders chased their croaking damnations with: praise for Bloodhound. Legend of the Apex Games, hunter of warriors, bringer of slatra… sleeping at the throat of the beast, knives sharpened but never striking. No blade can sing without a hand to guide it, and no hand can move without sufficient grit to fight hesitation. People, like knives, need their own whetstones to prepare them.
"Then what's takin' you so long? Tryin' to come up with a pretty poem to read 'em so they'll feel it in their little corporate hearts?" says Maggie in baby talk before scowling at another snowflake that's wandered onto her brow.
Some whetstones are less comforting than others.
"Not a poem," says Bloodhound, "but a message."
They flip over the spear and begin to carve their language into the shaft, roughly cutting the wood with their knife. Maggie picks several things from her teeth and holds silent until the hunter is finished. She may be a runaway brush fire, but even she knows when to burn slower.
"What's it say?" asks Maggie as Bloodhound sweeps off the shavings.
"'The land has spoken,'" quotes the hunter.
"Short, angry, and to the point," says Maggie, grinning at her pun, "perfect to plant in Hammond's lawn."
"Perfect to plant in the chest of the siphon's manager," adds Bloodhound, standing up to leave.
"I have to say, you aren't the disappointment I thought you'd be." Maggie holds out her hand.
Bloodhound takes it and replies, "A warrior's blade is sharpest when their crops are withered and their home is threatened."
"Then let's put that blade to some throats."