Jon Silvertongue

The noise from beyond the door is dark, close and expertly horrifying. The groans and moans of a beast that grunts to be dragging a murder weapon that caught the carpet and leveled an indented exasperation between the light side of the room and the other. Another, its brother, belts up and stirs the stairwell bringing sickening thoughts of hellbent rage as the age of these beings is unknown. Though Jon is sure they’re not here to inquire about the poor parking. After accidentally yielding to hide inside the wardrobe he came to the conclusion that their hearing couldn’t be very good, because the swinging sound of hangers did not seem to startle the beast.

Jon was a simple boy, with short black hair graying from the stresses of an ordinary twenty-five year old life, his fashion extraordinary whilst his personality rather bland, there was a certainty that he of all the personas would be the most unlikely hero to save the earth in a crises. Regardless, no need to digress, lets return to the wardrobe.

Jon glared perilously out the gap where the doors did not meet using a coat to cover any light that could be catching his face. By now he knew their hearing was bad but at this point the monster could make up for it in vision; so Jon had to be careful. What Jon saw from the gap he could barley comprehend. A sight he couldn’t even conjure in his own imagination. It had tusks, fur, horns, hoofs, teeth, two and half eyes, and a battle-suit that hung on the cusp of a renaissance knights armor. Jon proceeded to convince himself that today would not be the day that he let go. For he possessed a weapon far more skilled and valuable than a giant blooded battleaxe; Jon owned a silver tongue.

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