Hellblades
“They’re so glowy.”
“Oh shut up Uncle,” I said feeling a little annoyed.
He tried a tentative swing, then, foolishly, a second, broader one.
The hellblade sang and left a red brushstroke hanging a heartbeat in the air, as if the night itself had been painted.
“Uncle,” I said, catching his wrist. “Stop being a hillbilly. This isn’t a toy.”
“It’s pretty damn cool,” he said, a reluctant grin breaking through. “But yes. I would also like to keep all my limbs.”
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