Killbo dusted his clothes off and took a moment to collect himself. The clown’s trash portal had transported him close to the cathedral. There it was, a gray blight on the horizon, dreary in its somber majesty. It seemed to cast a shadow over the entire city. Killbo never like churches. Churches were for people who couldn’t be honest with themselves. It began to rain.
The halfling pondered the clown’s parting words. Though he resented it, they had left an impression on him. The clown understood the art, he intimated the essence of what made murder so exquisite. What made a slaughter beautiful, he wondered? This was the more philosophical question, for it implied that not all killings were equally aesthetic, a truth that was not obvious to a non-expert. It wasn’t the act of taking a life which was beautiful in itself, though this godlike act did reshape reality, but how the deed was performed. A murder that was personal was most beautiful of all, a murder that informed the victim of their sins prior to rendering their punishment.
Even this put a moralistic subtext on killing, and Killbo was left unsatisfied by the thought. Any savage could bash in someone’s skull with a club. Such crudity was tasteless. It was like the actions of a famished hog gorging itself brutishly on its feed, shameless as to whether it spilled gobs all over the place and left a mess. It was true also that any soldier could impartially eliminate an enemy combatant, and that military training explicitly sought to remove everything that made killing substantial, and to make it seem like a routine workaday task. Such was a negative solution, murder as a means to an end, not an end in itself.
No, a true killer was a gourmand. Refined and genteel, he set the table, lit the candles, cued a violinist to get playing, carefully arranged the courses to build up anticipation, and right when the last dish was served, and the butler removed the silver tray cover releasing a steam of delightfully carnal aromas, in a crescendo of ecstasy he cut slowly, gracefully, into the perfect steak and savored every tender bite.
He had been handed a riddle box, that’s what it was. And the challenge was how to open it. Murder took on many intricate shapes and guises, he mused. Killbo reviewed his thinking. There were categories of murder. At the most primitive and lowliest, was murder as a crime of passion, as an animal reaction, done out of anger, lust, or fear. In the middle of the road was practical killing, this was the death-dealing of war, or the violence of a mafiosi whacking a rival to prove a point. This was functional murder, which had his place. This type of killing had a necessary logic to it, it was about the removal of a problem. Even Killbo moonlighted as an assassin when he needed to make ends meet. Then there was a third category of murder, the rarest kind. This was murder not just for sport, but as a form of self-expression. Such massacres were symphonies. Very few understood this principle. The clown did, and that’s what bothered him.
The demon was right too. He was intrigued by its magics. Weapon conjuration would be a powerful tool to supplement his kit.
Killbo surveyed the gloomy statuary of the cathedral as he paused and reflected thus. An occasional frocked halfling of the priestly caste scampered in and out of view behind well-lit windows. The lighting signified the homey warmth halflings generally created everywhere for themselves, even in the most austere settings such as churches and temples. Centering his perspective on the cathedral was a massive stained glass scene from the scriptures, of Saintess Elanoria the Pillowfluffer fluffing the pillow of Lord Elroy Dewberry, the hero of their race and the finest chef who ever lived, who, according to the tales had fell mildly ill with a slight fever and required a night’s rest at Elanoria’s inn. For her caretakerly deeds she was beatified.
Killbo needed a plan, and he needed one quick. He was thankful for his quick-witted halfling instincts, which excelled at improvisation. If he was tasked with creatively slaying Vilne, then he would have to learn something of the fellow. His first task then, was espionage.
Killbo donned a cloak and entered the cathedral. Posing as one of the faithful he made his way to the pews and simulated prayer, surreptitiously taking in information and catching glances of how the place operated around him. The hall was mostly empty. Laying on a bed before the giant, pillow shaped icon, was a priest. Resting and relaxing was considered a symbolic act of worship among halflings, so the priests often reclined in such a way in their pulpit-beds as they gave their sermons. This one had apparently fallen asleep, long after he gave his service, and was only now stirring awake. Meekly, Killbo came over to the priest and rituallistically fluffed his pillow while piously uttering the sacramental phrase “May your pillows be forever fluffy.”
“And may your tea be forever warm.” The priest enjoined. “What brings you to me, child?”
“Father, I’m looking for someone. Would you happen to know of the whereabouts of one Vilne Butterhump?”
“Why yes, but what would anyone want with that grouchy old sourpuss?” Seemingly to dismiss Killbo’s inquiry, the priest leaned forward and held out a tankard of ale to share. “How about some holy ale, my boy?”
Killbo thought it prudent to receive this sacramental gesture as was expected of him. He grabbed the tankard with two hands and dutifully supped from it. “Blessed be those that share. I thank you for this hospitality, father.”
“May you return it to me a dozen-fold,” the priest said with the pleased self-assurance of one certain in the teachings of their faith.
“Now. What can you tell me of Vilne?”
“Right, old Vilne. Such a choleric bloke that one. That miser is with the exquisition.” the priest chuckled, as if to ridicule the deathly seriousness of the profession he had just referenced for its very seriousness, not in spite of it. “If the fishwives’ tales he spouts are to be believed, some primordial evil is afoot in Halflingville. Vilne’s on a mission here to get to the bottom of it. He kept mumbling something about dark forces, would you believe it? It’s all fanciful ho-hummery if you ask me. Halflings are known for being a superstitious lot, aren’t we now? Our imaginations oft get the better of us.” The priest laughed again, his cheeks pinkish with good cheer, as if to playfully tease himself with the irony of him being a purveyor of such fairytales in his own right.
The priest stared covetously at the beverage container Killbo was still holding , worrying that his visitor might forget to return his honeyed ale. “Say, my boy, would hand me back that tankard? If you’ve had your fill, of course.” Unconcerned, Killbo gave back the tankard and the priest took a hearty gulp from it and carelessly wiped the suds from his whiskers with the sleeve of his frock. Something about how he flicked his whiskers made Killbo want to disembowel him on the spot, but he restrained himself.
“Could you also pass me a crumpet?” The priest begged Killbo helplessly, rubbing his pudgy fingers together in anticipation of crumby goodness and with his attention focused on the dish of baked goods on the nightstand next to Killbo. Killbo obliged and offered him the plate.
“Where might I find master Butterhump?” Killbo asked as he watched with barely suppressed disdain as the priest indulged in the cakes.
The priest finished gobbling up a crumpet and thought with furrowed brow for a few seconds. “Well, he’s been spending quite some time in the archives in the annex adjacent the cathedral proper, doing research of some silly esoteric sort or another. I suppose that’s where he’d be if he hasn’t already buggered off by now. The passage over there leads to it. But you’ll need special permission from the rector to enter, I’m afraid. Unfortunately he’s currently on holiday. I can leave him a message for when he returns if you wish.” Before the priest realized it, Killbo was gone. He looked around confusedly for a few moments, shrugged, and then went back to resting.
“Well then. I suppose I’ll do with another crumpet.” The priest wiggled his fingers over the dish in excitement. Soon after he felt his throat tightening. At first he thought he had a bit of cake stuck in his pipe, but then he broke into a violent sweat. Moments later he was frothing out the mouth and convulsing aggressively. His face purpled and he went limp. Killbo had slipped poison into his ale before giving it back.
It was no issue for Killbo to infiltrate the archives. Killbo was a halfling after all, who were natural sneaks. Yet he took the native stealthiness of his species to the next level. As if by sheer will alone, he could almost cast a glamour on himself that transformed him into someone so unassuming and harmless that even those who managed to spot him figured to themselves “what trouble could such a fellow be up to?” and ignored it.
Once inside the archives Killbo was frustrated to discover he had wandered into what might as well have been a maze. There weren’t so much as stacks of books as mountains, strewn about willy-nilly in great mounds or precariously balanced on top of each other in huge towers. Some of the piles were so vast that Killbo saw a mouse cause the equivalent of a landslide, as a whole crust of books shifted off the side and scattered to the depths below. Halflings could already be hard to find. How on earth was he going to find one in all this, he wondered?
Undeterred, Killbo forged on, clattering up hillsides of books and limbering over the sheer faces of textual cliffs. He climbed for what felt like an eternity until finally he arrived at the highest peak from which he had a good vantage. He looked around. All he saw was loose pages gusting by, like snowdrifts. Until at last he saw a torch in the darkness. Someone was out there.
He moved closer to the light source, nimbly hopping from book pile to book pile as if he were a cricket leaping between stepping stones in a pond, until eventually he could make out a slight humanoid figure standing amid the heaps.
It was a halfling, grimacing pensively as he poured over various ancient tomes and puffed on a pipe. The halfling had carved out a little niche for himself which he had clearly been inhabiting for some days now. He had made a bed out of a halfing-sized book, sleeping under the pages for blankets, and had fashioned a desk of other large books. On this book-desk were yet more opened books. Killbo could vaguely make out various faded occult symbols illustrated on the mildewed pages.
For a while Killbo watched from the shadows. Vilne rummaged through some more tomes, scratched his head, and whispered secret passages to himself as he read them aloud. He looked energized, almost frenzied. His mind was palpably working under great strain and with singular focus and intense effort on a problem of supreme consequence to him.
Killbo was almost curious what Vilne was after. He again contemplated the meaning of “beautifully slaughter.” If he simply walked up to Vilne and gutted him like a common street thug, the demon would surely be unappeased. Besides, how many times has he done so? Even the transcendent experience of watching the life leak from someone’s body gets old if you do it the same way each time. He decided that a conversation was in order.
“Master Butterhump! Master Butterhump!” Killbo shouted with feigned concern. He scuttled over the book heaps towards him.
“Who goes there?” The exquisitor said guardedly.
“It is I, Pimm, the choirboy. The clergy sent me in case you needed assistance.”
“I do not. Be gone with ye.”
“But sir, I can see how much trouble your searching causes you. I can be of help. I am often sent to fetch works by the church authorities.”
Vilne’s expression was one of impatient weariness. “Do ye think I’m here for a collection of cheeky limericks, or after me grandam’s porridge recipe? Nae, ’tis crucial exquisition business I be on, ye simple lad. Be gone with ye. Ye nae’n’t understand the importance with which I deal.”
“What sort of business?” Killbo’s eye’s widened with feigned youthful curiosity.
Halflings, even a grizzled one such as Vilne, could hardly resist humoring one another’s innate curiosity when pressed. “Ach, if you ye must know, tis about a great evil afflicting the underbelly of this city. Ancient, vile stuff it be. ‘Fraid any more an’ I’ll scar ye mind irreparably with forbidden truths.”
“Ancient evil? Forbidden truths?” Killbo’s eyes twinkled like a pup’s seeking their master’s affection.
“Aye.”
“Interesting.” Killbo said. He had heard enough.
“Maybe it’s this book you’re looking for, mister exorcist?” Killbo pushed on a tower of books that began to wobble. Then like a series of dominos, it fell, knocking down more next to it. Then the last column toppled, and knocked loose a particularly gargantuan tome from atop a particularly massive mound. This caused what can only be described as an avalanche.
“What did ye do lad, what did ye do?!” Vilne shouted. Before he could react, the onslaught of paper was already upon him. He was washed away in it instantly while Killbo had hopped safely out of harm’s way. Killbo watched and savored as Vilne’s helpless body got lost in and surrendered to the flow, twisting up and down in unnatural angles.
“Ach! Fuck me bloody!” Vilne screamed.
His body was thrown off a cliff and the huge tome which had triggered the spill became his tomb. It landed on him with a disgusting squelch. All that could be seen of him now were two hairy, bare feet twitching with the last signs of life draining from the victim’s corpse.
With his work completed, Killbo swiftly exfiltrated the archives, slinked out of the cathedral, and soon his dirty feet were pattering their way back to the clown’s dark pit.