Portrait of a Serial Killer

[Head Trauma]

A serial killer is typically a person who murders three or more people, usually in service of abnormal psychological gratification, with the murders taking place over more than a month and including a significant period of time between them. ~Wikipedia

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To go on a killing spree with stealth and careful planning that would make the whole ... Once there was a time when I had some remorse—had second thoughts about killing; but that was all a long time ago: Psychopaths have no ethics, no scruples, and no conscience. ... That's why killing is so easy for a real psychopath.

[Head Trauma]

One

The urge came upon me, today I must kill.

I spied my victim standing in the Western Outskirts. It was noon and there were a few others pandering about, minding their own business. I studied him for close to an hour before I approached him. I greeted him with what could only be viewed as friendliness, he seemed over joyed. He greeted me back and we began to have idle chit chat about the local areas of interest.

I turned the conversation toward his place of origin. Toril, he replied. . . The Sword Coast. I knew of the place, I told him, and that I had met others from that region before. I suggested that we retire to the Lady's Rest for drinks and food and he readily accepted.

We entered the Lady's Rest and ordered drinks, I said I wasn't hungry at that time. He said he was, and he also ordered something to eat. I suggested that we head down stairs to continue our conversation and we went.

He continued talking about Toril, at which I was only half listening to him, I had other things on my mind. Moments later he went up to get his food, I waited for a moment before slipping strychnine into his drink. In minute doses, it is a restorative to increase appetite. In greater amounts, it causes paralysis and muscular convulsions, leading to a sudden and painful death.

He returned with a steak and potatoes, which he began to eat and chase down with his drink. I waited patiently, viewing him in much the same way a entomologist would study a insect. He finished and sat back, rubbing his stomach and letting out a soft belch. He seemed pleased with himself for a moment and that's when the strychnine started to take effect.

He fell out of his chair and onto the floor clutching his stomach. The convulsions started upon him a moment after. I quickly took out a small brass bell and rang it. The magic of the bell descended and the area was enveloped with silence.

With precautions in place I continued to watch him squirm. I took out my Lamordiean time piece and timed the whole procedure. Nineteen minutes and he was dead. I waited a moment longer, three to four minutes before cloaking the both of us in invisibility. I drank a tonic of strength and picked him up and proceeded to exit the Lady's Rest.

I traveled with his body for nearly three hours before depositing him in a safe location for later dissection. It was cold here so it should preserve the body nicely. His body could rest here and not be disturbed until my return.

Feel my fingers in your wound while my eyes ascend the gloom
Questions wasting all my time - I see your eyes detesting mine
Sick of a life you never had, in dead motion, you look so sad
I could care less if I'd like - I let you go into the night

Is my ignorance my fate, or is my love distorted hate?
Is deliverance my mate or am I sleeping while awake?
Is this place that we call home adorned by devastating foam?
Am I mortal, am I god - Am I brighter than you thought?

---

"You are confused aren't you, frightened, but that's alright I can help you. "
"Who is this?"
"I am a doctor, you must listen to me, you have lost your memory. There was an experiment something went wrong, your memory was erased. Do you understand me?"
"No I don't understand, what the hell is going on here?"
“Just listen. There are people coming for you even as we speak. You must not let them find you. You must leave now."
"Hello?"

[Head Trauma]

Murder is the unlawful killing of another human without justification or valid excuse, especially the unlawful killing of another human being with malice aforethought. ~Wikipedia

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I've been watching him for close to three weeks now. I studied everything about him, his mannerism, his words, the way he walked, and even accent. I wanted to carve a two in his forehead and crucify him to the gates of the Vallaki citadel. Already I could feel my fingers in  his wounds, probing his internal organs.

He would be next. One strike. Left of the spine, fourth lumbar down, the abdominal aorta.

I felt the headaches setting in. Quickly, I injected myself with laudanum. . .and suddenly I felt nothing. I faded into the lengthening shadows and vanished from sight. A few more nights I will give him, when the next full moon rises.

[Head Trauma]

Stalking is unwanted or obsessive attention by an individual or group towards another person. Stalking behaviors are related to harassment and intimidation and may include following the victim in person or monitoring them. The term stalking is used with some differing definitions in psychiatry and psychology, as well as in some legal jurisdictions as a term for a criminal offense. ~Wikipedia

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She stood five foot ten inches and approximately 160 pounds, every bit a walking dream for most men. Her beauty surpassed most I've seen in a long time. Only one thing marred her perfection. . . she had red hair.

She was fit but not overly toned, curves, and ah... rather abundantly endowed in the chest (which she doesn't flaunt, but her bra is a hero in the true struggle). Her hair would have to be removed.

She had slender fingers built for playing an instrument. I'd have to break them of course, music calms the savage beast and there was no way I was going to allow that.

Her hips moved in a hypnotic way when she walked, whether she was aware of this or not, who's to know. Perhaps I should break her hips also, or surgically alter them so there was not such a pronounce sway to them

Men seemed to flock to her like moths to a flame, such fools. When I was done with her all they would have for her is pity, not lust.

I could keep her alive with laudanum, dull the pain as I performed vivisection upon her.. I always loved touching the internal organs of my patient. Feeling my fingers in their wounds as my eyes ascend the gloom. The very thought right now arouses me. But I digress, I was stalking her.

I followed her around for a good two weeks. Picking herbs, playing her instrument, toying and flirting with the men around her. Flipping her disturbing red hair in such away to gain attention. Oh how I was beginning to hate her.

One day she broke free from her on lookers and went off alone, my time had come at long last. I would follower her and be done with her. . . .

I kill without scruple or silent regret.
In haunts of the sinister lunar aspect.
For I am the pleasure that comes from your pain.
Tiny red miracles falling like...Rain

[Head Trauma]

Human hunting refers to humans being hunted and killed for other persons' revenge, pleasure, entertainment, sports or sustenance. There have been historical incidents of the practice being carried out during times of social upheaval. ~Wikipedia

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Stalking part two, the hunt continues

She was picking herbs. I was so close to her that I could smell the sweet intoxicating scent of her sweat. I could reach out and caress her damnable scarlet hair if I wanted to. But no. Restraint.

I let her take a few steps ahead of me before I took up a twig and snapped it in two. She turned at the sound, good hearing she had, I smiled a sadistic grin. She scanned the area, not seeing me or hearing me, yes. .  .I was that good. She then went about her task of collecting herbs. I kept following her.

Spells lay daggers before me. Passion speaks in grue vehement stabs. Trance my eyes, fix my focus to pain. The tumor grows until the victim is slain.

I do so love the hunt. . . . .


“She can hear you, you know?”
“No she can't I have her drugged.”
“You sure you gave her the right dosage, she could be pretending to be out.”
“Stop it! Stop it! She's out that's the strongest opium good fang can buy.”
“I'm just saying, she could be a addict like you.”
“I'm not a addict! Go away!”
---Silence---

[Head Trauma]

I remember when
I remember, I remember when I lost my mind
There was something so pleasant about that place
Even your emotions have an echo in so much space
And when you're out there, without care
Yeah I was out of touch
But it wasn't because I didn't know enough
I just knew too much. . .

Empty hearts I can hear them talking
I close my eyes and I keep on stalking

No one's aware of the hunger I feel
it's something you or time cannot heal
I need someone to help me rise above

Eternal bliss is something I can show you
spread your arms and let my wings enfold you

In the darkness shades of crimson rapture
the world is ours alone to capture

Come over here and let me tell you something
nothing ever comes of nothing
we pay a price for all our choices made

Come along now and take my bloodied hand
I'll lead you to a promised land
the morning after may never be the same,
it may never come again...

It will never come again. . .

[Head Trauma]

The One That Got Away

I followed her to a natural plateau where she began to play her instrument and sing. I really didn't care for it, it grated on my nerves. The violin was never an instrument I cared for. Her voice was soft and she had an accent, some outlander place that prevented her from speaking properly. It grated on my ears as much as her creation of a song in the moment. Unrefined. She couldn't decide what she wanted to say.

I watched her with a eagerness nearing on hunger. I must have her. She would make a perfect number two, but the hair had to go. Gods I hated red heads, they made my skin crawl from way back in the days of Darkon. Under concealment of invisibility I began to prepare myself. I layered spells upon myself and drank tonics to strengthen my resolve and abilities. I waited a moment longer and then began to ascend the ramp leading to the small plateau. The hunger was getting unbearable, I had to kill her swiftly. Short swords in hand I crept closer.

She had no idea I was getting closer. She would pause from time to time perhaps thinking over her music and the lyrics she would put it it later. She was oblivious yo my approach, though her eyes occasionally swoop over her surrounds.

I maneuvered myself to attack from behind her. A sadistic smile began to form upon my lips, hidden only by the hood I wore to hide my face. Steps closer, agonizing steps closer and I struck! Fourth lumber down left of the spine the abdominal aorta. I knew the sudden pain would be excruciating.

It is an icy lance of pain that pulls a shout from her lips. She does not feel the full extent of it. Shock sets in too quickly for a full accounting of the damage. She just knows something has attacked her and that this is life and death, and there can be no thoughts for the pain. It all happens in an instant – his blades sink in, biting past skin and into places best never reached. Her own blade brought down from her voluminous sleeve. The violin, the bow, dropped to fall into the grass. She turns against all the agony and swings for my face with that dark-bladed dagger of hers.

I twisted my body to avoid the blow from the dagger she produced from up her sleeve. I muttered a quick spell of darkness and maneuvered myself behind her, making little more sound than a church mouse. I raised my short swords up, points down and brought them quickly down to strike between her shoulder blades, there with the blades in place I made a scissor motion. I quickly pulled the blades free and took a step back to prepare for yet another attack under cover of darkness. I produced a small copper bell, rang it once and tossed it on the ground, and suddenly all went silent.

Her strike goes wide and overextends her when she misses. The seize of her back makes her sloppy, slower. Something terribly damaged within making her slow but she cannot weigh such things when her life is in danger. The darkness surges panic in her already thrumming heart and before she can react there descends another tremendous bite of pain. The dagger vanishes from her grip into the nothingness as her hand betrays her. She falls without hearing her own scream, without the sound of her body landing hard in the grass. The absolute darkness confuses her senses. She tries to crawl away. Day was gone. She does not know what has happened but all her prayers are on not being seen because she cannot see.

I stood over her, short swords still at the ready. The tonics I had taken heighten my senses enough to know that we were alone. I kicked her in the left side to see just how far gone she was.

The vibrant hue of her blood mingles with the brilliance of her scarlet hair, a splash of unseen color along her fair, alabaster skin. She is trembling, and with the use of some muscles the limb spasms in protest. Her consciousness is agony and the kick another scream that I feel against my boot but I do not near. Darkness not of sight begins to close in on her as she continues to try her claw forward in a bid of desperate survival. She traverses mere inches in a herculean effort and it takes all that she is to achieve so small a feat. The sightless darkness is dizzying, fuzzy about the edges of her perception. She does not even realize the moment that she has fainted.
I prepared a syringe of laudanum, twice the recommended dosage. I then injected her with the concoction. I then waited for it to take effect.

She is unconscious but there are tells of the drug. Her breathing depresses with the sedation. It is almost too effective with the severity of her injuries.
It would dull her senses and make her weak. It would also deaden the pain from the attack I pressed against her.
I drained a potion of invisibility down her throat and began to drag her to a near by cave. One I knew would be empty of bandits.
She is unseen but the ground is painted from what had transpired. The wounds on her back still freely bleed, though she is dragged on her stomach and so the spill is not so great to make a trail. It is time for her that does not exist.

I took her deep into the cave and even deeper into it. All the bandits were dead, I had already made sure of this. When I got to my desired destination I tied her arms in front of her tightly and bound her feet as well. In her mouth I placed a gag so she couldn't bewitch me with her voice. I slapped her across the face to wake her up as little as possible.

"Wake up my dear, time to pay for your crimes."

The strike merits only the briefest flickering of her eyes, no more than a bleary slit of those brilliant ambers seen before she again slipped away. The moment will not even be marked in her memory. The pain was less now but the loss of blood paired with the introduction of the drug has left her dizzied. In those brief seconds between scratching the surface of consciousness and falling, she even dreams.

I smirked. "Guess I gave you too much. Oh well, I have other thing to do to you before you're more aware." I took out a very sharp dagger and began to shave her hair. When this was done, I rolled her over and flayed her back open with surgical precision, making a Y incision. With the muscles and spinal cord now exposed to me, I inserted the blade and reservoir of a viperblade into the cavity so it would slowly release the toxin into her spinal cord and arteries throughout time. This would do one of two things, make her immune to the venom, or kill her slowly over time. I had time to observe her, no one ever entered these caves other than bandits and they all gave me a wide birth. I was not playing this all by ear, I had premeditated this whole operation from the very moment I saw her.

Her hair falls away in a cascade of red to reveal the fair skin of her scalp beneath, a shade similar to the rest of her which speaks of an aversion to the sun, or the condition of not suffering a harsh environment. The hair is well-cared for, soft and silken, without so much as a split end. She has a good shape beneath, but it is clear the hair was part of her pride as the means to care for it so well would not have come cheaply in Barovia. She remains unconscious through the worst of it. It penetrates her dreams in strange ways … she feels trapped and troubled, but there is also a sense that she is floating and free. The pain is dull like it belonged to someone else, somewhere far away. The sensation that her mouth is dry troubles her more than anything else but as she draws near to waking, she cannot comprehend why. Why were her wrists so stiff, why was the air so cold along her head, why was her mouth so dry... None of it makes any sense to her and even when she opens her eyes to a heavily lidded stare down to the state of her wrists, there is still little sense to be had. She cannot quite figure out why those bonds kept her from moving and why everything feels as it does. It is utterly vexing.

I sewed the Y incision back up with the precision of a true surgeon.

I smiled down at her, "Ah, awake at long last. Now the true fun begins."    I reached into a pack and pulled out a  hammer, one used to fight the undead, but it would work just fine for what I had in mind. I took one of her hands, the left one first, and without even a warning I brought the hammer down with all the force I could muster. Crushing the phalanges in a single blow.

Zafirah's brow furrows as she takes in the sight of the man. She will perhaps recall something of the figure later, but for now there is only confusion. He sounds happy for some reason but she does not know him, nor does she know what has happened. There is only the distant feeling that she cannot move so well and that everything associated with the thought of moving is very heavy. She intends to ask him who he is, but that is muffled away. She realizes there is something in her mouth, which makes about as much sense as the bindings on her wrists. She watches him with an expression creased in confusion. The hammer is a mystery that answers itself before long. Things were still fuzzy and still felt like observing, watching more than participating. The distinct sound and the ache that makes it through the effects of the drug brings her to realize something rather startling: That is her hand, and she /needed/ those. Her eyes widen then.

I stare into her eyes. "I see that things are starting to sink in. Good, good." I reach for the right hand, and again raises the hammer and bring it down with bone cracking force. I sits back and study my handy work. No voices in my head, no shadows moving around me. I was aware of everything around me and I felt in no real danger.

No, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no a thousand times over. It echoes her thoughts but at her lips it translates only to a muffle pitched with panic. She does not know why he is doing this – she does not know who he is, or what nightmare she has awoken to. Those were her hands and they were her favorite hands (she had no spares, and so they were all the more important). It does not hurt so terribly, at least not as much as it should though there was no denying a significant amount of pain seeping through. Perhaps it is not as terrible as it looks. But, there is no denying for long that it is not exactly as terrible as it is. She cannot move her fingers. It makes her dizzy again to think about that and the bile comes up from her throat again, only for the rag to force it back down with an acidic bite. He is going to kill her. Once thought, the idea takes hold and does not go away. He is going to keep breaking parts of her until there is nothing left and she will be gone. She muffles at him more vigorously in a persuasion to change his mind.
I lean in, "What was that?" I removed the gag, "Say it again my dear. I don't think we need these bonds on your hands anymore either." Staying true to his word my removes the ropes around her hands. I prepares another syringe of laudanum to administrate to her.

Her voice is weak; a rasp incapable of drawing song into exquisite power. It is a raspy hiss, full of venom. “You... will be hunted for this. You … nngh... will never again know peace. Your... moments … are b-borrowed … waiting to be col-lected... “ She grits her teeth at him in a terrible expression that a beautiful face should never make. “Thissss... hatred of mine for you... will pull you into … the cold grave... and I will -consume you-.” The words would have surprised even she if she were in the better sense of mind. Always, she had cajoled, swayed, and charmed ... but when given voice in this last moment she found anger.

"Should I remove your tongue next, harlot? You'll never catch me, no one will. I'm Nightfall. Those who brave the night will find, Horror, dread, and demon kind. He slays them all and rends their souls- Darkness comes where Nightfall goes."

She flinches but the hatred remains, burning bright in a rage against the situation, against her hurt, and the hopelessness of it all. “You … are … already … marked.” There is seething to her words, tempering them even when their substance is weak. “My blood is … on you. It will never... never wash clean …” She is panting, and faint, but she watches him.

I chuckled. “I have the blood of many on me and they as of yet have not been able to find me. For they are dead. "I grow weary of your babbling." I reach for a set of tongs and a long thin sharp knife.

It is no reassurance that this is not his first … a professional, and one who is undaunted. “They were not me.” She murmurs with hatred still in her heart as another bout of nausea brings her to tremble. In so many ways, she does not feel well. The sight of the tongs and the knife quiets her because even in her state, there is a fear to provoke further pain. The rebellion dies with the understanding that he will hurt her more and ruin her, and that this is not over and she is woefully unable to contest him. He has untied her hands but it is only to mock her because they will do nothing she wills of them. Her thoughts become desperate and narrow, thinking, thinking. She could not possibly just remain to let him break more of her

“You're a Outlander, you don't belong here in Barovia. You corrupt the land and don't listen to the warnings that have been given. I'm here to cleanse you from this land. I am the night. I'm doing the Barovians a favor.” I then injected her with another dose of laudanum.

The range of emotion one exhibits when suffering is truly impressive. His words put tears in her eyes unlike that of the anger, wide with hurt and upset but she dare not speak. She just shakes her head to his words that she would never be that sort of individual. The shaking of her head feels strange – lighter, yet heavier, without some sensation in which she is accustomed. It is no moment to think on it. He has bitten her arm with a needle and within very well might be death. It hurts her more to die for the crimes of others, as she perceives it. She waits desperately and wonders if a moment will come where he looks away. She tries to work her feet slowly from her boots to leave the bindings with them.

"No tears, please. It's a waste of good suffering." He brushes a tear away from her left eye." I have business to attend to, you should be safe here and unable to escape. I'll return in no less than an hour." I then stood up, takes one last look at her and fades into the shadows of the cave.

Zafirah flinches again as the vile man touches her. He is associated with hurt and only terrible things, of ruin, and the end. He is the one seeking to snuff out her flame and she is both terrified of him and enraged by him. Her thoughts do not have the edge that merits the situation and she is sluggish enough that when she closes her eyes for a long blink he is gone like he had never been. Her eyes close for an imperceptible amount of time before snapping open in the realization that he has left. It tastes like a trap. He will give her hope then he will crush it. Good suffering... the Firelord spoke of suffering. The way it is the due of all those with ambition, that it will forge them true if they are not found wanting. This was one such moment though it has come too soon in her life and too unexpected. The opportunity to try cannot be denied even if it is a trap that will hasten her end. But, Firelord, her eyes were so heavy and there had been no pain for the long moment she had blinked before. Perhaps she would not even wake... then all would be drifting wonderment forever with none of the pain and never again seeing that stranger. It is so wonderful a thought. Yet so, so very wrong. She has hardly even lived! She has so many dreams. Yesterday had been a wonder that brought her down this road and into a nightmare, the song she had been inspired to write lost entirely in the moment that had brought her here. There is more than the desire to live for those wonderful moments with him. More than the desire to see the faces of her friends, and to hear their tales. She is greedy, and she does not want to be denied a single moment that is her due.

A little more hurt could be endured and so it is: there is a tear within her foot as she pulls it from the bindings. Another muted pain among so many, marked by red, swelling skin that will eventually purple. She does not have the presence of mind to collect her boots when she pulls her other foot free. Her captor had not broken those so they have the mind to do her bidding even if poor and clumsy (she has lost quite a bit of blood atop of everything else). Though she had her hands free all along, it is with the freedom of her feet that she has the motivation to bring her teeth into her pack and snatch up one of the potions within like fishing for apples within a barrel. Her wrists hold the potion as her teeth work the cork. She spits the cork to the side and wets her dry mouth on the invisibility potion. She cannot see herself and the cave is dark, and so she stumbles into walls a number of times before stumbling into the light. She had stepped over and onto bodies, stuck her toe into the socket of an eye only to pluck it free with a sickening pop. Bodies had littered that dark passage and now in the light, all that was told of it was the wet feel of blood on her feet. She has to run before he finds her.

[Head Trauma]

The One That Got Away Part 2

She looked so adorable struggling there on the ground of the cave, bald of that cursed red hair, trying to free herself from her boots. I almost wanted to go to her and cut the silk rope that held her, but I thought better of it. I wanted to see just how much of a survivor she was.

Once she freed herself, she stumbled out of the cave... I followed, smiling. Praeclarum Custodem Ovium Lupum: An excellent protector of sheep, the wolf. And for tonight, I was her wolf and she my sheep. I would see her safely to the walls of the Grey City and part ways with her. . . . for now.

All Saints Day, the taint of rain
Blood and mud and thunder all the same
To those who close their ranks to Gille's men
Bricqueville, Prelati and De Sille
Creatures of the dark creeping up and down the countryside
Little angles out to pasture once again
Torture garden rules of thumb apply
To sacred flesh and the naked eye
Golgothic this erotica
Stinking of honey and worse, sulfur
So black was the magic in this tragical kingdom
The superstitions grew
Wise to the wolves that surprised their children
Gagged in sacks and dragged back to
Tiffauges
It's roads now home to a beautiful stranger
Lifting her veil
Spinning her lies
Tender eyes, never-ending danger
It grows
A rose that chose death for it's bedmuck
Prickles in wait
Thanking her spies
Trickling thighs…
~Honey and Sulfur by Cradle of Filth

[Head Trauma]

Schizoaffective disorder (SZA, SZD or SAD) is a mental disorder characterized by abnormal thought processes and deregulated emotions. The diagnosis is made when the person has features of both schizophrenia and a mood disorder—either bipolar disorder or depression—but does not strictly meet diagnostic criteria for either alone. The bipolar type is distinguished by symptoms of mania, hypomania, or mixed episode; the depressive type by symptoms of depression only. Common symptoms of the disorder include hallucinations, paranoid delusions, and disorganized speech and thinking. The onset of symptoms usually begins in young adulthood, currently with an uncertain lifetime prevalence because the disorder was redefined, but DSM-IV prevalence estimates have been less than one percent of the population, in the range of 0.5 to 0.8 percent. Diagnosis is based on observed behavior and the person's reported experiences.

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Spoiler: show

It's. . . . complicated.

It's been three hours since I tore up this room at the Blue Water. I smashed every mirror into thousands of pieces, slashed the bed up, over turned the furniture. . .It's in shambles now, I used one of my enchanted bells to silence my rampage. Once I was finished I sat on the littered floor and smoked enough opium to knock out a normal size person, luckily I've a tolerance now.

So I smoked a lot, and now I feel nothing. As it should be. Self medicating. Thirteen reasons why. . . but it's complicated. When I finally could feel my legs once again, I exited by means of a convenient window. I made my way slowly through the streets of the Grey City, I even made use of the sewer system to exit the city.

I did what I've done before when high on opium, I collected herbs. It's a favorite past time of mine. . .and brewing them. My picking led me to the Village of Barovia and it was there that the urge to kill came upon me. It was going to be an attack of opportunity, the first person that exited the Blood o' the Vine tavern.

Two

As I waited I thought back over the last few days and I came to realize that it wasn't a few days, more like a few weeks. In my opium haze I traveled from Vallaki to the Village of Barovia in two whole weeks. I thought about smoking more but decided against it for now. I wanted a clear head for the murder that lay ahead.

Hours passed and no one exited the Blood of the Vine. Well, there was one person, but I wasn't going to waist my time on him. He kept running back and forth and around the the village like he was mad on . . . . . well, opium. I know I never acted like that, but I have heard of those that do act strangely while chasing the dragon.

Once more the strange man entered the Vine and I waited further. Moments later he exited with her in tow. I felt like killing them both but decided against it. I waited further, and I was rewarded moments later by a man walking out of the Vine. He appeared muscular and aware of himself. He stepped out into the street and I moved up behind him as silent as death. He waited there, in the night, taking in its scent, and that's when I lead with my signature move. I stabbed him three times in rapid motion. . . .Left of the spine, fourth lumbar down, the abdominal aorta. Blood gushed out of the wound and painted the street in crimson hues. The snow in deep contrast to the color of his lifes blood spreading and melting the snow away slowly.

As I've said, he was a strong man, the initial wounds did not kill him, I heard him growl deep in his chest like a wild animal. I told him it would be over soon, and keeping true to my word I took out a folding straight razor and slit his throat. That seemed to do the duty and so I went to carve the number two into his forehead.

I waited for a time to let the body cool some and to be sure he was truly dead. I made a Y-incision in the cold and extracted his left kidney, his left lung, and his heart. I arranged his intestines in a nice coil next to his body like a coil of hemp rope. I the sowed him up as best as I could and also sowed up his throat.

I stood there a moment Watching him. The steam coming off his intestines, the steam coming from the sown up y-incision. I cleaned off my short swords and my straight razor , put them away and walked off into the shadows.

---

I returned to my hide out and found lucky number one right where I left him. I placed the heart, kidney, and lung into his open chest and sowed up the y-incision. I only need a few more parts and number one would be complete. Sadly though, I fear it is time for a hibernation. Number one will be safe here and well preserved.