The Gamesmaster came to see me, giddy, so pleased he felt with himself and with me, his new celebrity fighter.
“Splendid! Magnificent!” he crowed. “Better than I could have hoped! And, oh, the moon is full next week! How much stronger will you become then, my pet? How much more fearsome!”
“What will you have me kill then?” I replied, past caring. “An elephant? I hear you have one put up in a stall somewhere.”
The Gamesmaster’s smile seemed to gleam, to glow in the weak light. “No. You have earned a little respite, I think. And I want to display the beast in its full ferocity, unhampered by any struggle. No, your next challenge will prove much easier. No challenge at all, in fact.” He chuckled, clapping his hands as he thought of it, announcing: “The werewolf may play at its leisure when, on the first night of the full moon, we turn it loose on a pack of Christians!”
“Easy prey, no?” he cackled. “A nice reward for you, my prized entertainer!”
He left me alone in my despair. He could not have known—or did he see it in my eyes, my expression?—the horror his words had unsheathed inside me. The Cynocephalus—myself—set upon the innocent, my brothers and sisters in Christ! I to serve as the Devil’s plaything, and their executioner!
I was in Hell indeed!