Now Farin’s sword was a long, slight blade, and its makers had engraved old runes into its cross guard. When he slipped it from its sheath it glimmered slight, though there was no sunlight in this world.

“I am Farin, of Rosgaliant.”

The Second Chamberlain hissed and spat, and the sinners rose from their empty pools, their filthy chains clanking like rocks. The first sinner bit at Farin’s hands, in hopes of snapping off his light fingers, but the blade slipped down the sinner’s throat and severed the chords within.

The second sinner came at Farin and its brains bled like a river, and when the blood splashed on Farin’s clothes, it burned their wearer. Farin swung once, and lopped off the sinner’s perverse head, and the head rolled off the Plateau into the far depths of the underworld.

The third sinner bounded forth like an eager child, and his overlong hands wrapped themselves about Farin’s neck in coils, and the fingers twisted up Farin’s face like ivy, in order to put out his eyes. But Farin’s blade took on its own life, and severed the hands from the sinner’s wrists, and the hands writhed and flopped to the floor like wounded fish.

The Second Chamberlain fled, and it is said that the bodies of the sinners shriveled up into pathetic piles of ash, slipping out of their chains and drifting off into the charcoal floor – though there was no wind –  and never again troubled passers into the Underworld.

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