Their master was a collector of knives, and each one was given a number, organized neatly to be utilized for deadly intent. Some of them proved to be nothing more than disposable cutlery, completely unnecessary once they were brandished for intimidation. What good were such weapons?
The thirteenth one at the very end of the arsenal, sheathed in a far more handsome case than many of the others, had much to boast about.
The numberless one dared to call himself more valuable, for he had no place in the lineup-- nobody to compare to himself in value.
Elendira the Crimsonnail was nothing but a gory ragdoll the last time he had seen her. She had fallen in her battle against the Double Fang, twisted into something unrecognizable.
Legato Bluesummers had also fallen at the hand of Vash the Stampede, a bullet through his skull putting an end to his macabre masquerade.
He had witnessed Elendira's corpse first hand-- and so, when he locks eyes with the Crimsonnail for the first time since arriving to this island, Legato is certain that he was either experiencing a psychotic break, or being dragged through a particularly cruel depiction of Hell.
He could not project his thoughts directly into Elendira's mind, not without full functionality of his threads. How meticulous it felt to verbalize everything. Legato remained still and firm in his stance, but the subtle tension in his voice was audible.
" The grave couldn't hold you after all. . .
That is, if you are real, and not a figment of my delusions. "
