"I remember those times— a balancing act: an elite bounty hunter by day, a swindling con-artist, a conman— I believe is the word for it— by night..." Narniff said to the fruit vendor. "Complicated times— working for Jeremiah Sandsmith and The Wildsmoke Empire, and Adena-Werrman of 'The Conmen.' Those times left marks— physical and mental, on my blood— and right here in my mind. And those times— and these scars— will never fade away."
The bartender hollered, "Just take your fruit and leave, sir."
Narniff obliged. "While I'm here, I may as well regale you the pleasantries I recieved for my bounty-hunting work. Often I was praised by fellow hunters, and too often I created enemies— and on special occasions I made new friendships, and often I had death spells put on my head by vengeful witches. I made an enemy named Vindo, a top-paying assassin— made more than me on some occasions— we had some run-ins, but we worked things out— and now— praise the Lord— he's rotting in the dungeons— where the rats crawl up his clothings and his articles are stripped by the mice, while he's chained to the cement-brick wall, as he deserves it— and it deserves him."
The vendor plucked two fruits from his woven basket, gave one to Narniff, and one to her husband, who was with her, and he ate it. "Interesting story. Reminds me of my cousin— a bounty hunter named Kazan serving under the same league as you and— he had run-ins with Vindo. 'Scary man,' he told me. 'Big bad wolf-type— big ego— and his battlecry was likened by many to the roar of a lion— not the brute you'd want to cross— that's all I know— that's all I'll ever know."
Narniff reluctantly questioned her. "He's dead?"
"He's dead— dead as the souls rotting in the depths of Hades, the ones buried deep in Tartarus," The vendor grew face sorrowful and grim. "He discovered a conspiracy— a truth, if you will. He knew too much— of good and evil— so they sent Vindo to put an ax in his head— and to keep it simple— his head lays framed center on Vindo's wall— and still to this day, it hangs there, framed center on his wall, brilliant streaks of red drooling down his nose, and his stomach emptied out onto the carpet— the scene terrifies me."
"I'm sorry," Narniff replied coldly. "I'm sorry he had to die the way he did." Narniff plucked a berry from the vendor's woven basket, examined it, and bit into it. "I'll pay for this too— put it on my bill."
As the pasty skies turned red, orange, and yellow hues, Narniff stumbled down the emptying alleyways, towards his cottage tucked away in the deepest corners of the road.
Awaiting him in his cottage was a second newsletter, which read, "THE TRIALS PAPERS: THE WILDSMOKE EMPIRE UNDER QUESTIONING."
Narniff gnawed on the berry some more. "Tis concluded, our empire may soon fall."
"As I expected it to," said his fiance, toiling away even after a long day of work.
"I've missed you," Narniff cried in relief. "I should go prepare the dinner. I brought berries and other fruits, vegetables, legumes, meats, and alcoholic and non-alcoholic drinks, and other assortments— I should be in the yards behind— should I be needed— call for me."
Warmly, his fiance gathered the fruits and vegetables, legimes and meats, alcoholic and non-alcoholic drinks into the kitchen until he returned to cook them, then returned to work.
***
In the mud of the yards behind the cottage, a serpent slithered up the stairways, up the porch, into the rugged, lifeless kitchen. The plumping of feet up the porch's steps echoed into the empty cottage. The viper slithered into a cabinet. "Darn,"
Narniff wandered through the kitchen, filing through every one of its drawers, searching for a kitoro, a wooden utensil common in Southeast Heraldine. He muttered, "Praise the Lord— you cannot find a kitoro when one is called for, and when it isn't called for— praise the Lord— it is difficult to find. I must check the kitchenware cabinets."
With malice, the serpent uttered, "I should tell him I hold what he seeks— in hand a utensil, and in mind— revenge, and in heart— the guts to take it all."