“ I have plenty of experience with black cats”

 

• Jon

 

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   One board. Eight rows of eight rooms each. Black and white one after another. 

   On it, two sides settle. For two thousand years, they have kemped keenly, the aftermath allotting the bane of one and the bliss of another. The winner wielding the wealth of the world; the loser leaving the land. 

   The following fight falls a fortnight from then. 

 

   Such is the game of chess.

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Headword I

May The Best Bewin

 

    T hey step up. Forthcome the first eight, who fight for the following eight. The king and queen, the bishop, the knight, and the steeple.

   Though nicer to name them the “ bishopen ” and “ knighten ”. For the men are naught but the kings. Not only those who wear a wreath like them, also the bearsters of blessed belief beside, the knighthood, and the hulks; all ladies. The yeowomen also; all eight.

   This has always been more than a win for wealth. It is a win for wives . 

   However, against the kinghelm, kingstaff, and kingshroud, they are not the holders of headship. That burden is borne by their brides. While they wield the worths of wealth with the win.

   They all glower at one another, every kemp but the kings keen. With the brazen bang of a bell begins the brawl.

   White wields the starting stir. The headwife homes in on her knighten near. She looks back and bows. By the books, it is a flank opening.

   — Knighten to F3!

   By the behest, the halfmare hops over the footwomen. Her iron cloth clangs and fair hair sways as her hooves settle on the room heeded. She may only stir to one set three steps from any other, in the shape of an L .

   — To D5! — Begins the black’s draught. A bare behest beckons a yeowoman. She trudges ahead two as is deemed of her at the starting stir. With that, she stays nigh on out of reach of the knighten, who heeds her with highmindedness. She nobbut stares back, squeezing her spear. Her king is in plight, should a bishopen show up to the room two steps to her right. But she shall look to her leadster to know what is nicest for them.

   — To D4! — White wields. The yeowoman meets her matchen. They abide one another, their helms highlighting the galled glares. Neither may knock the other afore them, as they may only strike who is slanted from them. So they stay, naught but scowling at each other. The queen’s plot might pan out.

   — Knighten to F6! — Black bids. This time, the black halfmare hops forth and she minds her matchen evenly.

   The light leadster looks to her left. Her maid meets her eyes and bows becomingly, setting the shepherd's staff by her bosom.    

   — Bishopen to F4! 

   She is to step forth along a slanted stretch. She now stands before her kin knighten, under the ken of the one clad in black, who flashes her a smirk, mayhaps to frighten her. She settles the staff beside, bearing a lazy leer. She watches the way the smirk wallows with the eyes wary, and sends back a sweet smile.

   — To C5! — Black behests. Steps the yeowoman to the room slanted from which the white is at. Their stand at once swaps. They steer their spears at each other. One bid by the queen and the black is beaten. However, such a strike would not be wise early on. So the white stirs it sundrily.

   — To E3! 

   Now her fellow footwoman stands such that, if black strikes she shall be struck then. Therewhile the white bishopen now bides in the way to win against the other black wifemare, who on watching her takes her tongue through her teeth.

   — Knighten to C6! — Black’s behest. She grins at her and goes forth. All of them stand soon to strike. Their queens have stirred it slowly so far, but the storm is soon to swoop.

   — To C3! 

   The black wieldster watches the wye and with brazen deeming chooses a bold deed. She holds her husband’s hand and an understanding unfolds unto them. They share a smile and a smooch. With bright blush, he bids: 

   — Q-queen to B6! 

   She steps away from his side and everyone known to her near nods. Her standing sends a stream of scare to all in white but their wieldster, who pans her and pulls her husband beside, squeezing his head on her breast. That seems to stir him from the scare and his staff slips as she bends down to bid in his ear: 

   — Let me fight for thee, my darling. 

   He stammers, seeming sunkissed, as he hurries to heave his headrod back up. He stands up straight to the full frameheight he can fulfill from his short shape and shoves it forward. His speech seeks might, but with his meek mumbling it winds up as a whine: 

   — Q-q-queen to C2! 

   A last keen kiss later, she steps away. Her husband is in a haze still and she giggles at it. Though as she stares on ahead, it slips not from her sight the sickened snarl the other shows for but a shortwhile. She grins to gall her and it gives.

   — Knighten to H5! — The black’s then wrathful words gift the white great glee. The knighten stirs, her stand now setting the holymaid within strikeway. And though the lazy leer lies on her still, the wifemare can not stop the lustful look she lets out back, heeding not her hotheaded matchen behind the maiden.

   — Bishopen to E5! — White wills. This sends the holy handmaid away from one halfmare to another, who heeds her with hunger alike.

   — To F6! — Upon stepping forth, she steers her spear at the bishopen’s breast, who belives not bothered. She holds her hand up, the gainly bene to God biding on her lips.

   The first hit forthcomes not from them, however. 

   —  D to C5! 

   The white winds up the blow and bores the ironclad belly of her matchen, whose eyes wend back until only the white is seen. The spear slumps from her and she falls forward limp. She withdraws the now bloodied brightshaft as the killed keels over. 

   The body lies there not long after. A light from above lifts it away to the Lord. They all watch it happen before heeding the hild once more. As soon as the yeowoman steps over to the newlyfreed room, she knows her being now before the baneful queen.

   — Queen to C5! 

   A frightful feeling fills her erst the wildly greater wieldster nabs her by the neck. She grabs her off the ground with her left, the right wrenching the bloody baneshaft from her, snapping it as the two sides fall to the floor. She stares into her black eyes, her own starting to blur as her throat tightens. A dire deed, she seeks to send the scathing fingers off, but the strength is fleeting. 

   Atlast the struggle stops, the arms slacking, and a nasty crunch is rung as the windpipe is crushed. The lich is let go off, and the lady and her wifemare watch it with loathing. The godmaid nearby, who has not gazed away from her hildfoe this whole while, shuts her eyes still, sending a bead the slain’s way and on her bosom making a token to her Blesslord. 

   The same light lifts the body and the frightening queen forthgoes onto the free room.

   — Bishopen to D4! — White wills it. That puts the holymaid against the harmful queen, her shiny stare daring dark. She holds up not her hand, but the hallowcrook high to the nightshade’s neck. And though her stare back is steely, the small bead of sweat on her forehead is foreseen by the godmaid, who grins as she gazes at it.

   — Q-queen to A5!  

   The strongwoman stirs two rooms to the right, but her leer leaves not the stillsmirking shelchen. 

   — To B4!

   Not even when a white yeowoman wanders up to her, weapon wielded.

   — Q-queen to C7!

   She withdraws to her women. The shining yeowoman shares in the shelchen’s boldened bliss.

   — To C4! — White wields.

   — To E5!

   The white yeowoman and bishopen now both know that whoever will strike next will stay the afterdraught. The oftseen loss in this befalling is the one of lower berth, so the spearbearster slackens her hold on it, ready to lay down her life. The bishopen bewatches her, but stays stilly. 

   — C to D5!

   — !

   The say startles her so that the spear almost slips, and she belooks back to be wiss it was right. Her gouthleadster gives her a steadfast stare and a nod, and she gulps and wrings her weapon. She looks to her fellowen, but she is locked in a fight of glares with the footwoman lusting for her blood, the blissful grin soon to split her cheeks.

   Knitting her brows and gnashing her teeth, she takes the starkspear’s baneful sting into her hildfoe’s heart, stopping it as hers thunders. Her breast heaves and she beholds her hang her head, deemed dead, until she lifts it and lets her see the smug smirk swartblooded, soaking her chin. The loonlike laughter lingers in her ears and the soundless stare stabs hers. She roars, reaching the redyard deeper in, getting nearer the goading swarthy smile, bleeding bitter. 

   When the weapon is withdrawn, her now heartless fienden falls over, a firered pool pushed out of it. The body is borne away and the tile it was in is taken.

   — E to D4!

   The next hilddraught is heard, but she sees it not. 

   Sees not how her Godfearing gets her own heart skewered. The staff on the stonefloor, hands held as she gazes up at her God, her great smile never stirring. Sees not how her hallowen dies not down on the stone, but standing upright, a frithful fairness to her as she leaves to her Lord.

   — Knighten to D4! 

   What she sees is the swartborn’s head getting grinded into mush by the mare’s hooves. Sees the fear in her eyes right before it befalls. Sees the wonder with which her wifeknight wreaks what little is left atop the plumred puddle. Basks in her bliss. The headless is taken as the hooves tread on her still.

   — Bishopen to B4! — Black’s behest. The shadehued shelchen speeds by, stopping at the spearwoman near the knighten. With her hand forth on the fightster’s frame, she asks the Almighty and a bellowing blaze falls on her foe. The death throes are dimly heard through the heavenfire’s might as it murthers her. Soon, the scorching swarm is settled and naught but ashes abide, reared off by a wuthering wind. 

   Winding up right where she has the king in plight, she bodes it: 

   — Check! 

   The word from a wayold tongue, told through kinruns through eld, has been a given of the game since the start. In the soothfast writs of yore it is said to have meant “ king ”, and has been since a token of ruth toward the other side. 

   — !!

   He shakes as she shouts it. Were his skin not so bleak, it would seem ghastly. He gazes at his wife so as to heed whither to head, his whole body wobbly and his wee legs almost buckling. She grips the giggles from going out at the silly sight. 

   — King to D1! 

   The queen lears him to step to his left near her so as to be sound. He does so, almost stumbling on his shroud, which shakes off the laughs from her.

   — Bishopen to F5! 

   Both blackmaids out, the white queen watches her standing on the strikeway of the newcomer, so needs to stir two ahead. 

   — Q-queen to C4!

   She leers at the bishopen from before to her left and the foeknighten two forward, the maid mild yet the wifemare’s wariness is blatant. Therewhile, her leadknighten beside is lusting after the wisemaid within reach. She wonders whether to let her have her longed one. 

   — Steeple to D8 and King to C8!

   Her thoughts are bothered by the black’s wale to ward their king behind his wife, swapping rooms with the steeple to his right, one astir atlast. The fight is about to shift, the shiny queen feels it and forgoes forewit thus. She shall be reckless right forth.

   — D to C6!

   Her harkempen thirls the hooved through the mouth and out the head, tearing the helm on the other side and spilling her brains. The late leer is as laidback as can be, highlighting the knighten’s hardmindedness. The baneweapon is off, the body onfalls, the blood onflows and the blisslight oncomes. 

   — Queen to C6!

   The foreboding queen forspills no time in thirling the yeowoman as she did her dear kempen. She kicks her down, setting the tip of her highheel on her forehead and driving it through the helm into her skull. The fright frozen in death seen on the spearwoman leaves the lady fain, and the fairblooded wreath emb the white head is a handsome sight to heed. 

   Witcraft lays onto the white leadster that the wisest draught is that which draws her out of the way of her matchen and scores her a strike. However, the standing of the board is such that, should she bestir herself away now and bestow the queen even one more draught, she deems a soon mishap can swap from being mightly to downright sooth. So she lets her knighten know her ettle, laying lordship over to her. She only bows back and the bleak queen abides the black. 

   — Queen to C6! — The white knighten next wills. The queen stirs so fast as to seem like fleeting and showing up a shortwhile later. Right before her matchen, she beheads her in one quick swipe, sharp claws snithing skin, flesh and bone. The head falls at her feet and she stomps it, the eyes flying off. The muddy feel of mashed lire and gushing gore against her shoe is lifeful. She glees as she grinds the muddle into more misshapen bits, while watching the widowed wee woeful wielder with wode win.

   — Check!

   — B to C6!    

   Her blitheness ends not even as the doomspear is driven through her body, lifting her as she is then further thirled. Not even when she is left to bleed out. Even when the light leaves with the lich, the bright whittle beswathing it like a burial shroud, the singsong cackles crackle still in the ears of all leftover. 

   The white ferdknighten at once fulfills lordship and leers everyone’s bearings. Right ahead is the steeddark steeple, her hulking sinewy frame under her heathshroud foreboding. She grins as she cracks her knuckles, and seems to gaze not at the knighten, but beyond. 

   — !

    Her king . 

   A pin. An utter pin. She is stuck, the eldritch spell erecast on the board binding her to the spot, as stirring shall bring her king bane. Hapless is she, for henceforth she can not hope to strike the steeple in only one draught. 

   — Curse it.

   She lays eyes onto her yeowoman nearby and the look they share is enough of a behight to stand by their own berths. All she can hope for now is to do well by her late leadster and wend her king out of plight’s way. 

   — My king! To C1! 

   He seems to know what happens next, as he shifts over with his hands shielding his anlet. 

   — Steeple to D4! — Black’s bid. She hears the heavy footfalls forthrush forward, the whoop let out by the wild thursen, and the last thing she feels is the stark fist crushing her head against the stonen floor. 

   The steeple beats the steedlich again and again, so that by the time the beam takes it, it is but mash, white and red and all over. She basks in the blood off her fists, seeing not the same doom she is about to be drawn into as the kempen nouthe killed.

   — E to D4! — As the sharp shaft thirls her tough foot, the steeple roops, stumbling and falling over and the loud thud shakes the whole stead. The shaftwieldster leaps atop the boorish bulwark and with stinging iron bores the eyes. The following roar of wark nearly sends her flying off, but the grip on the ironloom gets her steady as she stabs the wretch deeper. The dull feel of the tip forthhitting stone reaches her together with the end of the warking reards and she hops off the ettinen as she is taken. 

   — K-knighten to F4!

   The black knighten reaches the room before her bishopen, and only one away from the yeowoman, who is now the furthest white on the field. The wifemare knows well the ills this could inbring, so it is key that she keep her from forthgoing even a step further. The white’s behoof in having both knightens is gone, yet they still wield it with both steeples afield. Yet the black’s behoof is likewise having both hallowmaids still.

   — To A3! — White’s stir. A stand to strike her black bishopen. An unmighty one, however it still brings forth another footwoman from them. 

   — Bishopen to A5!

   — Steeple to A2! — White goes. Atlast one from their side at play. The endgame is incoming and it seems one side will no longer take it slow in getting to it. She shall thus match that will. 

   — King to C7! 

   He stands before his spearwoman and even cowers, as if hoping her lithe frame shall keep him out of sight. It is indearing and she oaths to not stir that yeowoman so.

   — Bishopen to C4! — White stirs.

   — Steeple to D8!

   — Steeple to D1! 

   Should the steeple storm forth as was bethought, the white shall do her the same. The yeowoman set in between shall be sound a while longer.

   — To G5! — Black’s draught.

   — To G3!

   — Bishopen to G4! 

   Now if white’s plot is to pan out of heaving the hinxknighten from the field, her holymaid will be free to forthstrike their steeple. If their king then kills her next, the hulk shall heave the yeowoman off the hild, having the king in plight. Thenceforth, everything may shift on black’s behoof. They shall not latch onto that likelihood. White instead goes:

   — To F3! 

   Her black godmaid is gifted an eathy one to onslaught, so she forgoes that fightster not. — Bishopen to F3!

   She looks up to her Lord, the skies soon swartening, the clouds crackling. Her lips stir stilly, but her harfoe has no time to take in what is happening erst the lightning lashes down on her, the boom deafening to all. The burnt body is frozen a while before it twitches and falls to the floor, the marred ferdiron beside molten. She smiles at the sight. 

   — Steeple to F1! — The bright bulwark settles before the black bishopen, and she knows she shall be the great kempen’s slain.

   — Steeple to D4! 

   The black bulwark atlast is bestowed the seel sith of striking the white footwoman furthest than all. Her fists draw great glee from the gory deed, the babyish giggles bewildering against the burly body. 

   — Steeple to F3!

   Right after she is done, her white matchen does the same to the maid afore her, rushing ahead and making it wiss that she will not leave to the Lord in a sightly shape. 

   — Steeple to C4! — Black’s behest. She strikes down God’s dearest to her right, setting the wee white king in plight, who upon hearing her hoarse booming speech bestirs himself to the room on the right without his wifemare’s bid. She only follows him to her left laughing, standing ready to slaughter him, and he squeals frightened. 

   — Chack! 

   — EEK! 

   — My king! Be smolt and stir not unless I say it unto you so! 

   — I-I u-understand! Be q-quick then, I beg you! 

   — King to C2! 

   He forspills no time forthgoing thither, his eyes on the floor to forbear the scary thursen’s sight, his hold on his headrod tight and his walk weak.

   — K-knighten to D5! — Black’s bid. The loonhued leadster bestirs herself with gainsome gait before her gouthsteeple.

   — Steeple to D3! — So they then stand, both barrows against one another, their grins gleefully yearning.

   — Steeple to E4!

   The black barrow opens way to the white oaf, seemingly setting her leadlady up to be stricken. However, the shiny leadlady herself can see how that is a blatant trap. She rather worries about the way the murky wardbarrow may seek to set her richking in plight once more. 

   — King to B3!

   — To H5! — Black behests. The brightborn knighten bears a bare beknowing upon heeding the board now. An understanding about the unmistaking threat that is the bishopen’s stand still here. As well as the wider bigness that black wields still. While she does have both steeples, the bishopen can eathly shy from them and even overwhelm their shielding. 

   Thus, to not beteem her to bestir on unscathed is her utmost burden. She may leave lordship to her thursens’ taking, as they can mar their foes’ fighting fand to forthcome further. They may even nab the other knighten as she overlooks them as lutty leadsters and writes them off as wild oaves. But the bishopen’s bane is hers only to bear. She shall be the bloot if it brings them bliss. Eyeing her angking, he ereknows her ettle. 

   — K-knighten to D2!

   — Bishopen to D2! 

   The black bishopen walks to her not, rather belives where she is and raises her arms, the stand alike that said in the book swotted up by the benemaids. The stand of who once split the seas, the name now set far from thought. The wisemaid’s eyes whiten erst she hears the howling wind. 

   However, rather than wind, what follows forth instead is, from behind the benemaid, spring hundreds of horseflies, a rainbowgleaming swarthy cloud roaring as it comes right to her. Upon the sight, a stillness happens unto her, something seldom seen for her kind. Her hair bristles, but run she shall not, can not even. Like her late leadster before, befalls now her own bane. 

   The flies flood her from every which way, their mouths hungrily marking her horsely hide, leeches for lifeblood leaking it out. As the drightknighten is drained, her strength sating the dark deathbringers, who swell speedfully, her shape shrivels. The iron shroud she fit in loosens, no longer fastened, and she shifts into a dry husk as the deadly hoverers flee her ferdcloth, bloated with blood. The steedlich’s higher half snaps off as it falls to the floor, along with the hooved half. 

   The bishopen bestirs herself then to the room, ready for her slaughter soon. The white steeple with her sights on her all the way to her right already knows she is hers to knock. Her fellow barrow bids her forth:

   — Stipol un A tuh D twoo!

   Seeing as her foe forthbrought a frightening end to her evenkempen, she finds it fair to give the godmaid an evenly gory end. Her stomps strike their way to the wise woman, who as always looks every bit as laidback as ever. But stomp her she does not, instead setting down her hand on her head, many times more in muchness. For a bit, it is as if she bethinks to burst it like a berry. 

   A brightomwhile after, she rather begrips her by the heel and swiftly swings her body up before smashing it down onto the board. All can tell the tiny godmaid is already gone. The sheer boom by the shock of her body against the board as well as the brains shot everywhither are a telling token of such. Still, the steeple gives it no grith, lifting the lich once more, over and over mashing it as the rooms redden and redden. 

   It is amid another upswing that the light at last lets it out of the hulk’s hand. The wardbarrow watches it be wrested away, the grin she gives a stark sight as to how stoked she seems at her strength. 

   — To A5!

   — Stipol tuh D foor! — Wills white.

   Rather than have her own steeple strike the white afore her, the knighten knows she needs her still, so she only bids her to bestir herself to her left. — Steeple to E5!

   — Stipol un foor tuh D free! 

   — King to B6! — Bids black, already aware that the ettinens will erechoose to bring their bright king nearer, keen to show off some sharpminded draught, or so they deem it such. 

   The steeples seem to find this flash of thought then, the first time they come off cunning. However, they only do as foredeemed by the ferdknighten. — Keng tuh C foor! 

   — King to C7! — Bodes black, as her draught did what was needed and now he may stay back. Still, the silly steeples atwite the atburst on their “smart skill”, each fawning over her fellow. The knighten can not stop her scoffing at the sight. 

   — Stipol tuh F twoo! — A fleeting fand for her ferdkempen’s life. 

   — To F5! — Black’s behest, wrecking white’s plot and putting her fightsters all rowed to her left, further on the field than her foes. 

   — Keng tuh B free! 

   — To G4! 

   — Stipol tuh D foor! — White bids, as black beknows this being another behest that brought her right before her. These bumbling boars are indeed braindead and the wyeknighten wonders what her white matchen might have thought to trust them the taking of leadership. 

   — To H4! — Growing weary of white’s weak wills, she gladly gives them and eathy one to onslaught. And being the boors they are, they strike at once. 

   — G tuh H foor! 

   The white weaponwieldster jumps and jabs her matchen through the top of her head, through her throat, skewering her as she stands back. As the body falls she begrips her ferdiron, bloody and filthy. 

   Therewhile, tells black her barrow to bestir herself two ahead. — Steeple to E3! — Setting their scared king in plight, as they busied themselves with lesser business. 

   — Chack! 

   — EEK! 

   And once again, without waiting for white’s will, their wielder wends and walks to the room behind. The knighten stops not her slight smirk. 

   — To F4! — Black bodes. As she does, the dull dreary barrow afore her bears an astunned anlet, mayhaps bethinking to onslaught the oncoming foe, only a few steps away from becoming a better strikester. Though even an oaf like her may bear the brains needed to know that this is a sly snare set to smite her, and therefore is not to be set off. They should not then shift thither, even as things grow grim for th- 

   — Stipol un D tuh F foor! 

   … And like that, to her left, her spearkempen is slain by the ram rushing forward, who shares with her fellow a fain grin, as if gleefully proud of what was nouthe done. With that, something in her snaps. 

   What could they even be proud of?! One of them sent the other straight into a snare, sheer death! Know these numskulls not anything about godgiven gouthcraft?! She can not at all understand what drove her daring matchen to make such a blasted braindead choosing of two childlike twits for theedleadsters. She shall not have featherheadedness so high go free of foryielding, even as a small side of her still warns her to be wiser, to not head anywhither heedless. But in her wayward wrath, she instead feeds the fire inside. 

   — Knighten to F4! 

   The black knighten is astir before her king has even done his bid. She leaps right whence she last stood and forthsends a fiery hoof to the hulk’s cheek, cracking her chin and kicking her full on the forehead with the other. The thursen tumbles and as she does. The wild wyeknighten flips and forthlands both forelimbs on the big boar’s head, squelching it speedily. As she lands, a soft laugh strikes her ears, one not earthly, as if oncoming from the afterlife, though she can not tell if she mistakes her own mirth for it.

   Then the murky madness wallows and where was once wrathful, now rises a reckful soul, who sees her bane only a bit before it bestirs itself to her. 

   — Steeple to F4! 

   In the end, her own pride put her in plight, a foretale fulfilled. 

   And so stands the board before them altogether even. Three spearwieldsters, two steeples and their small kings. Black bears the behoof still of being further forward. 

   — Steeple to E2! — Bodes black. 

   — Chack. — Yells the steeple, and yet it has not the same strength. It seems the loss of her leadster left her lost. 

   Therewhile, the white king comes out of the way, forthstepping to one forward. 

   — S-steeple to G2! 

   — S-steeple to C4! 

   For a while, black stands still and thinks this may be another sly snare, a fand to forthstrike their steeple. But soon it is seen that it is a winning way. They may strike the white yeowoman and yield a way for their own. 

   — Steeple to H2!

   — Steeple to G4!

   — !!

   … Huh?... It seems in their hurry to heave a head off the hild, they heeded not the straight way in which white stood toward their wyekempen. And not for the first time in two thousand years, the king is kept aware of why he wields not the lead always. 

   The white leader looks gleeful though, a little grin on him who otherwise is always angsty. When the dreadful dark steeple snarls at him, however, he edwends to his erstwhile anlet. Wrathful, the wode warden stirs sooner than her king can stop her, one room right ahead, her sight red. 

   — AH!

   Likewise, he looks emb him and flees to the row afore, the room right before the black yeowoman. His murky matchen has a mind of wit then, as he walks to stand slanted from his spearbearster, having her warded. He can not help feeling chuffed for the thought, when his erstwhile one ended dreadfully. 

   — S-steeple to F4! — White wields, his great glee of earlier gone. 

   — Steeple to G3! — Black bids, his pride of wit with him still, a bliss to his boastful speech. 

   — S-steeple to C4!

   — Tuh C fayve!

   White now has no other way but to will their warden, away from the yeowoman, as the other side shall not yield it and their steeple can not shift from the row she is at, for as soon as she does, her matchen shall mar her fellow fighster. 

   — S-steeple to F4! — Wields white then. 

   — Steeple to H3! 

   And though she knew not to leave her lane, the white warden stirred still and now stands two ahead, the loonhued leader to her left. 

   — CHACK!!! 

   — AAAAH!!! 

   He stumbles as he screams, slipping into the room slanted to his right, falling fast. He rises quickly, his cheeks red, as he dusts off his dark shroud. The steeple hopes henceforth her stark king may strike one of the yeowomen near. 

   — Keng tuh B fayve! — Such is white’s will. 

   — Steeple to H4! 

   The spearkempen she stood warding before is struck, but white knows this is a needed loss this late in the hild. She only seeks to stir the swarthy king further and further away from her own, so steps one more ahead, hunting him down. 

   — Keng tuh B ayt! — Behests black.

   — Keng tuh C fayve!

   At last, her leader has the time to take one out. The white warden watches as he abides the room to his right, and slowly raises his bright staff, readying a blow. The yeowoman against him weens a weak swing to be sent her way, foredeeming it needed, after her fall, that she nab her spear and stab her own heart with it to end her. 

   But then, from behind his forelocks, the eyes of an unsettling hunter hit her, their white not clean nor comely, but wild, a blaze bursting forth. Then, as if time slows down around them, she feels the firehot staff brush against her side and shove her a bit. An eyeblink later, she is lifted off the floor. 

   Time flows fast again.

   And she is thrown thwart the board at breakneck speed, her every bone broken as she atlast comes to a stop, crashing onto the gates at the stead’s southern end. One more moan is all they hear from her, before the light lifts her away for good. 

   For a while after, there stays a stillness in the room. The white king’s eyes are wide and wild for a bit more, before they are beswathed by his bright locks once again. 

   The black steeple bestirs herself, without a bid, two back, a heartquake to hurry away. Something in him seems off to her still. 

   He stops staring at the floor and homes in on her, and as he does, a fear rises her ridgebone for an inting unknown. He steps forth into a room slanted, far from her still, but right now it looks like he looms over her, a ghost he gives off threatening. She stirs back whither she stood before. 

   — CHACK!!! 

   — !!!

   And like that, the white wielder wends back to his meek mood, his squeal sending off any foreboding feeling he put forth tofore. He flees to one ahead of him.

   The swarthy spearwoman then makes the last meaningful draught.

   For henceforth, the steeples and kings forspill the next fifty draughts with nothing to show for it. The bell tolls from above then, and the fight is deemed a draw. No one else but the kings are beteemed to bestir themselves as they meet in the middle and shake hands, each bowing to the other and stepping away after, their fellows now following behind. Each side leaves through whence they came, the board now empty, the room wallowing from the earth. 

   

No loser or winner this time. Only meaningless slaughter. 

 

And it shall not be the last, God willing…