Originally Posted by
Neil Miller
Love it. I can see Tarkus, head down, happily following a glinting line of little rosette collars, fiiling his pocket as he goes, eyes all shiny, a big smile on his face. Too late does he see the huge wedge of a blade raised at a 45 degree angle, the little line of precious collars has led him precociously under it.
HAR! He exclaims, for no particular reason as the blade falls with a swish. Then all is silent save for the zephyr breeze blowing the fine desert sand over the precious collars. Tarkus sees this with his disconnected head. His lips form the HAR word one last time, but the playful breeze, along with his breath, has gone. Darkness descends and dreams of the collars fade away into the gentle night of oblivion...
I feel like crying now as well, Tarkus...