Malek's boisterous laughter resounded throughout the pub in the icy town of Everlook. "Spence," he cackled, "you're the craziest son of a bitch I know."

Spencer sat brooding and nursing a tankard beside his orc associate at the bar. He recoiled at the supposed compliment; he didn't really consider himself to be a particularly 'crazy son of a bitch'. "Why do you always insist on calling me that?"

The lively chortle came again. "Are you kidding? I saw the way you carved that dwarf today. If only you could see yourself. Most of us try to get the job done quickly so we can move onto the next, but with you…it's like art."

The rogue's eyes dimmed disagreeably as he stared down into his warm mug. "I just do what I do."

"Yes, but while most rogues just bounce about, hacking away, it's as though you're settling a personal score each time. You're not a disordered butcher like the rest of us."

Spencer shrugged dismissively and hooked his boot heels over the rail of his barstool.

"Don't make me bring up how we first met," Malek grinned.

The threadbare face of Constantina, the warlock, appeared from the other side of him. "Oh please, do tell."

"No, please don't," sulked Spencer. He got up to leave, but Malek's enormous meaty hand caught him by the coat collar. "Oh, no. You know how I love to see you squirm when I tell this story."

-----

Malek had been living on the outskirts of the Crossroads with family when his little daughter, Inya, was carried away by a malicious centaur. This one centaur, in particular, was known for his unwholesome interest in young girls. From time to time, a troll or orc child would disappear and be found later, ravaged and lifeless.

The centaur was easy to track this time; there were clear trails in the soil where Inya's feet had dragged. Malek finally came upon them both in a rocky mountainside crevice. He'd arrived before the creature had had his way with her, but the situation quickly escalated. The crazed centaur was holding the girl at knife-point, threatening to slice her ear-to-ear if Malek didn't turn around and walk away.

At that point, he saw something move out of the corner of his eye. To the orc, it appeared as if a section of the landscape had rippled, but he immediately recognized the distortion as a novice rogue that hadn't quite yet perfected his stealth technique. Luckily, the centaur hadn't seen it. Malek was more infuriated than he had ever been in his life, but he stayed put and watched.

"I'll do it," the creature was growling, urgency and desperation in his tone. "I'll open her throat wide open if you don't turn around right now." He slowly drew his soggy tongue up the girl's cheek for emphasis, and she sobbed in revulsion.

"You don't have the balls," came a daunting whisper. Before the centaur could challenge or react to the disembodied voice, his testicles had been cleaved effectively from his body. They spattered onto the rocks below. Malek's grateful laughter was quickly drowned out by piercing howls of agony.

After returning his daughter to the safety of home, he insisted on thanking Spencer with a visit to the local tavern. This eventually became a frequent practice for them, and they quickly developed a friendship.

-----

Constantina gaped in disbelief. "You really are a crazy son of a bitch. 'You don't have the balls', ha ha!" She almost tittered right off her barstool.

Spencer shifted uncomfortably and glowered at Malek. "That was a long time ago."

"Oh, you haven't changed. You've got this sadistic streak that's inspiring, really."

Was that really true? Spencer leaned on the bar and pensively sipped the froth from his lager. He never considered himself particularly vicious, but when he compared what he had been to what he was now, he may as well have been an entirely different person. Attempting to discern any kind of semblance with his former self was fruitless.

However, when Malek was depicting the story of his daughter, Spencer found himself recalling how much concern he had felt for the child. At that point he knew that he could never let the beast get away with such atrocities ever again, and took what action seemed appropriate. It was perfectly sensible to him at the time, but now that he thought about it, it was indeed rather cruel.

"That's a real fancy dagger you got there," the goblin bartender drawled, interrupting the rogue's ruminations. He eyed the ornately jeweled hilt hanging from Spencer's side. "How much you want for it?"

"It's not for sale."

The goblin scowled and ran his tongue over serrated teeth. "I'll give you thirty gold pieces for it."

"I said…it's not for sale."

"Uh huh. It's not that big, you can't do any real good damage with it against any reasonably armored foe. Why you need it?"

"Because," Spencer explained, without a trace of compunction, "I'm going to use it to kill my wife." He reached for the bowl of ambercorns and popped one into his mouth.