His heart was pounding when he made it around the corner. Two of them spotted him immediately and it rippled for just a second to two others. He couldn't waste any time. He fired two shots, both of them breaking through the air like sharp thunder, and nailed two goblins in the head, each with a sound of cantaloupes splitting apart.

The guns are out. At least as far as Bobby using them is concerned. So are the leather gloves which I considered him wearing to keep Tisandra from being scalded by the hands. He may buy guns for Zuzu to keep for protection (or Clarence's guerilla use later) but there's no point in stacking his living iron hands with a handgun, then leather gloves to keep him from harming Tisandra (those go out too), only later to pick up a crazy alien zap gun. Too many layers. Too many unnecessary instruments. As Bobby says to Tisandy at the motel, "Carry only what you need".

Made other side notes in class today. Bobby's iron hands cast his relationship with Tisandra in the same mold as Edward Scissorhands and Winona Ryder's character, Kim Boggs. That potential for real harm exists if awareness isn't there. And spices up their interaction, as Tisandra would, wisely, keep safe distance from him.

Thus Zuzu acts as a natural intermediary. And it's that position as intermediary that causes Tisandra to indulge her libidinous appetites over Zuzu first. Because Zuzu is the closest person she can have contact with. Lord knows you can't seduce or charm a man who has hands that'll melt right through you.

Well Bobby and I certainly have one thing in common. We covet our tequila (though I'm more elitist about my mezcal wine than he would likely be. Herradura Silver for me. Cheap and worm-gimmicked for the greaser with the two fists of iron).

"What'd you have for breakfast?" She asked him.

"Worms" he told her, flatly.

"Worms? What kind of breakfast is that?"

He tipped the bottle up and slurped the pickled caterpillar from the very bottom.

"A man's gotta eat"

When he finally entered the royal woods, it was crisp with the chill of night.

The hind, a strong and lean red doe, was set up exactly as he had asked; her neck tied to a ring set in the center of the stone courtyard, her hooves clicking nervously in anticipation. Blindfolded. Twitching with uncertainty and nervousness. She jerked a little as he entered, the creak of the door shrill and high-pitched as he closed it behind him. Here was his little sacrifice. His little blind prize.

Kurlos looked at her for a moment, comforted by her skittishness. It was only meant to satisfy the dogs but he felt safe that there would be no complaints, no contests about her quality. The doe's musky fear was palpable, almost balmy. This one, he was sure, would do. He adjusted his bow on his back and then moved past, watching her pull at her ropes at the noise of him. He ignored it and continued on through the garden, eventually moving towards the stone table a few meters away. He examined the tools set out precisely on the altar shelf, picking up the candles next to the knives as if buying them at market.

Red candles. Good. That was the most important thing, he noted. Certain situations like this required certain kinds of light. And red candles were a necessity for this sort of petition. One mistake, one mishandled gesture and you would find that great offense had been taken and the effort completely wasted. A lesson he had learned the hard way the first time.

Now, at least, he knew what kind of missteps to watch for. He knew exactly what his guest would find accomodating and what it would find... insulting... in the way of protocol.

He replaced the red candle and looked out over the knives. So many styles. So many options. He picked one up and ran his thumb perpendicular to the length of the blade. All very sharp. All worthwhile. But his eyes caught a particular prize; A long serpentine blade curved delicately to a spear-point, with a handle made of what looked like black folding scales, interlaced atop each other all the way down to the pommel. He took it and formed a fist around it. It felt firm, almost possessed, and he swung it in front of himself, testing the weight in his hand. He paused and studied the quality of the metal again until, finally satisfied with its design, he sheathed the blade, and tied it to his waist. He looked out through the woods of the garden, dense and dark in the shadows of the torchlight, and exhaled through his nostrils with a smile.

Then he turned to the doe.

He approached her, the rattle of his bow and quiver snapping her to attention again. The restraint would have to come first. If he took off her blindfold, in the subsequent storm of panic and limbs, he'd have a difficult time getting close enough to cut her loose. It would have to work itself off in her escape.

He leaned in close, to the rope tied around her neck, and sensed the edge in her gentle sniffing off the wind. He pulled the knife from his sheath and angled it at her neck, then slid it delicately under the rope and sliced upwards. The rope burst in half and the deer, suddenly feeling the slack, backed up, skitted around him and, as he turned to watch her, bounded into the long shadows of the woods.

He sheathed the knife and watched her disappear, the trees and grass folding over her silhouette like a veil. He would give her a slight head start. It was only fair. He closed his eyes, breathed in the heady perfume of her fright and then looked deep into the mystery of the woods. His pulse sang to him of blood and death, in harmonies and unrelenting hums. And when he felt she had gained a far enough lead, he held his bow against his back, and in a rattle of knife, bow and arrows, burst into the woods after her.

His heart immediately began to race. He made no effort to be delicate or gentle in his speed. He had to track her down as quickly as possible.