T Salamander

T Salamander enjoyed local fame down by the creek, there with her daughter. Prided herself on her inky black frame, bathing each day in the cool, brackish water. She set amphibious cold-blooded hearts on fire, exploding, through black magic arts. All in the region knew her name. The boys from town came out to peep, spied on her while she was sunning. Under her spell, they would fall fast asleep; T Salamander was cunning. They passed out cold right in the mud. She and her daughter sampled their blood; the cost of admission was steep. Regaining consciousness in noonday sun, confused and dazed, sleepy and weak, having no idea what had been done, they slithered home, unable to speak. They were mumbling, stumbling, drained of life force; some even died as the spell ran its course, the cases connected by none. At last, a meeting was called in the town; the lizards and newts attended too, shouting and yelling; it all spiraled down, and none, it seemed, knew what to do. A stranger spoke up, the voice of a newt: sinewy, orange, a dangerous brute; the patch on his eye was dark brown. “Been tracking this witch for many a year; I almost feared the trail had run dry. The rumors I'd heard all made it quite clear; if you’re needing help, then I'm your guy. I do expect a sum of gold. I'll see her dead; if truth be told, her magic took my other eye.” They all agreed and the newt took his leave; a raid would be made in the night. This time he wouldn’t be quite so naïve; her power drew strength from the light. She wore his missing eye on golden cord. Though he knew well it could not be restored, still, it was something he hoped to retrieve. Silent, he slithered close, near one o’clock. Black was the night: a fingernail moon. Down to where she’d carved her name in the rock, on a rise by the brackish lagoon. Knowing that he’d have to enter her lair, steeling his nerve, he was caught unaware when the stone carving started to talk. “Arise! Arise!” the wall managed to shout, a voice like gravel, incredibly loud. Advantage was gone now, without a doubt, so he ducked through the door, into a cloud of foul-smelling air and hurled his spear, impaled the figure lying near, and reached to pull his broadsword out. T Salamander raged and shrieked at this and fumbled for the golden cord, while breathing out an eerie, evil hiss; the magic eye went crashing to the floor. ’Twas then a rage took over him; the broadsword cleft her front right limb, the blade was poised for one last kiss… It seemed her spirit drained out, nay; it poured… Old, gray, and wrinkled, unable to see, She drew her last breath and slumped to the floor. She whispered, “Thanks, you rescued me!” Confused, he backed up through the door; the newt was shaken to his core. At least the town would not be ravaged more. But then he saw it lying by the bed. He reached for it, and on a lark, he slipped the talisman over his head. The world, at first, completely dark, then power coursed his veins, a raging flood; he had an overwhelming urge for blood, and thus, T Newt became a name of dread. ---------- I found this old brick taking down a barn, and it seemed like there ought to be a story to go with it... :-)