There was a bang, a puff of smoke, and a faint sizzle as the man in black materialized in Prunhiline and Britina’s kitchen. While unusual, it wasn’t shocking; men dressed in black showed up about once a month. They rarely lingered if someone was home; if not, they usually left a note.

“Tremble before me, Britina of the Sixth Circle, for I am…” He bellowed, oozing confidence and drama. This assassination, he decided, would be one for the textbooks.

“Fifth Circle,” Prunhiline corrected calmly. This was the second assassin this week. At least he hadn’t shown up during her bath, like the last one. That had been infuriating not just because of the intrusion but because her bath was interrupted. She didn't want Britina to know, but she was starting to enjoy the big tub they had installed. And her new toys were fun to play with. She did appreciate those considerate enough to confine the mess to the bathroom.

“Um, I’m sorry,” the man stammered. This wasn’t going as expected. Usually, his sudden appearances prompted screaming, fainting, or at least a gasp of alarm. The least she could do was yell, 'Oh no, a strange man in my kitchen!' or something.

“Fifth Circle,” Prunhiline corrected, not looking up from her task. “She got promoted after the dwarven incident, which wasn’t my fault.” Washing dishes clearly took priority over random assassins.

“Oh, uh, let me start over,” the man said, drawing a deep breath to regain his composure. “TREMBLE BEFORE ME…” He hesitated mid-roar. “Wait, you’re not Britina, are you?” This was nothing like he’d imagined: no dramatic magic, flashy acrobatics, daggers, and certainly no death. His confidence wavered. He could already picture this encounter in the assassin training textbook under the chapter What Not to Do. He used to laugh at that chapter. He really didn’t want to star in it.

“No,” Prunhiline said casually, scrubbing furiously at the dish. She couldn’t let Britina see evidence of her latest cooking disaster. Britina always fussed when she tried to “cook.” At least this time, there was no summoned demon or accidental portal to an elder god’s lair. The last elder god had been particularly miffed when she interrupted his bath. “Stupid elder gods, stupid demons, stupid sandwiches,” she muttered.

“Oh, sorry, sir. I’m looking for Britina, Magi of the, uh… Sixth?” The assassin’s confidence faltered. Was he at the wrong house again? He shuddered, recalling the horrors next door. That neighbor’s fashion choices would haunt him for weeks. Ghouls shouldn’t wear that. He made a mental note to research poisons that induced memory loss in case therapy didn't work.

“Ma’am,” Prunhiline corrected, irritation creeping into her tone. The man annoyed her, but not nearly as much as the cursed stain on this dish. A celebrated warrior of the plains and a slayer of monsters, she was losing a battle to a plate.

“Excuse me?” The man asked, confused.

“I’m a woman, not a man. You call me Ma’am, but really, I’d rather you just call me Prun.” Prunhiline said as she continued to scrub the dish with more vigor. The stain refused to come out, and Britina would be home soon! “I shouldn’t have used the fancy dish.” Mumbled Prunhiline to herself and possibly the dish. If she ever got three wishes, she would wish away all fancy dishes and squirrels; she hated squirrels.

“Oh, well. Sorry. I’m used to women being more, well, female.” This made the man more nervous than he felt it should. He didn’t like discussing how women should be.

“What?” The dish was winning the battle, but Prunhiline wasn’t willing to give up yet. She would add a “cleaner of dishes” to her long title, possibly at the beginning. The order of a plains person’s title was ordered by the most dangerous creature defeated or a remarkable feat accomplished. “Cleaner of dishes” would come before a dragon, a werewolf, and a squirrel who was quite fierce.

“Well, you don’t exactly have… you know… breasts and your haircut's, uh, not feminine. And you’re huge. What are you, six-five? Plus, those muscles!” The assassin seemed more impressed than alarmed by her sheer size and muscular build.

“Six-seven,” Prunhiline snapped, scrubbing the plate with renewed vigor. “And yes, I have muscles and breasts. Women can have both. They’re just under the armor!” The assassin officially annoyed her, but the cursed dish demanded her full focus. Clean the fancy dish; everything else could wait. This was her only priority.

“Oh, um, sorry. Look, does Britina live here?” The man asked, slightly confused about the dishes, the mess, and the overall warzone-like kitchen he had found himself in. He had seen murder scenes that were less messy and more appetizing.

“Yes,” she said, scrubbing harder, hoping not to rub off the fancy design.

“Is she around?” He asked, hopefully.

“Who’s asking?” The dish was winning, and she wasn’t happy.

“I am, MORFARK THE ASSASSIN! I am here to kill Britina for the Dark Circle!” The words echoed around what was once a lovely kitchen. Morfark was proud of his introduction.

“Right, Morfart. How did you do that with your voice?” Prunhiline asked, impressed with his introduction.

“It’s Morfark, with a ‘k,’ not a ‘t.’ What did I do?” The man hated it when people said his name wrong. This man/woman was annoying him. Her dishwashing wasn’t helping his agitation.

“You made it sound like it was all capital letters,” Prunhiline commented. She contemplated how she could buy new dishes and possibly a new kitchen before Britina came home. Neither were good options for her.

“Oh, they taught us that in assassin’s school. You have to lower your voice and really project it. I was first in my class!” Morfark said with pride. He was very good at introductions and got an award for it.

“Very cool. She’s not here.” A plan started to form in Prunhiline’s mind. She could kill the assassin with the fancy dishes. The blood might cover a little of the mess. But, no, she made a deal with Britina that she wouldn’t kill any more assassins in the house unless they interrupted her bath. (Hello, Dear Reader, rampages aren't no longer allowed in the house) She could drag him to the tub, but that wouldn’t cover up the kitchen. Maybe she could convince Britina she was bathing in the kitchen sink, but no, Prunhiline knew she wouldn’t fit, and Bitina wouldn’t believe her.

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“When will she be back?” Morfark was now concerned by the tall warrior's intense stare. She seemed to be in serious contemplation. It made him feel as if he would die a horrible death, such as being killed by dishware.

“Hopefully not soon.” Sighed Prunhiline. “Look, I’m kinda busy. Could you come back later? Maybe next week or next month. You can leave her a note, and she might get back with you.” Prunhiline shrugged, knowing that Britina wouldn’t get back to him.

“Well, I’m not due back to the temple until nightfall. Could I maybe stick around?” The assassin tried but failed at sounding like he was begging. He looked around the “kitchen” and couldn’t find a clean chair. “If I left her a note, do you think she would get back with me?” He looked up and inspected the interesting splatter patterns on the ceiling.

“No, she would incinerate it with her magic,” Prunhiline said, hoping to give the assassin a hint to leave.

“Look, what happened here? Was this some arcane demonic spell gone horribly wrong? Was a demon horde slaughtered here?” As the man asked, he began worring about his safety, but for the wrong reasons.

“Not this time, thankfully, I wanted a sandwich. Why do you think I’m wearing my full armor in the kitchen?” The warrior said with some embarrassment.

“But, this… this is… “ The man sputtered, “A sandwich? Armor?” He started to worry less about his safety and more about his sanity. The horrid neighbor and now this! He decided he needed to add to the chapter in the assassin’s textbook on “What can go wrong.” The chapter desperately needed an update.

“Look, if you stick around, you clean. That’s the deal.” Prunhiline declared firmly.

Morfark looked around, down and up; this was a big mess. He looked at the warrior and nodded yes. He didn’t know what else to do.

“Can you cook? I’m hungry.” Prunhiline asked as her stomach rumbled.

“Um, Yes,” Morfark said.

The neighbor’s ghoul let out his regular nightly wail as the sun dipped below the horizon. Morfark, the assassin, and Prunhiline, the warrior, sat sipping tea that Morfark made for them. This was the sight that Britina saw when she entered the sitting room of her home.

“I’m home, dear love. Who’s your… friend?” Britina asked cautiously.

“Oh, my dear lady, let me introduce myself. I AM MORFARK THE ASSASSIN!” he pronounced again with high confidence and a little satisfaction. His teachers would be proud.

“Bri! Check this out. He taught me how to say my words in capital.” She took a deep breath and proclaimed, “I AM PRUNHILINE, WARRIOR OF THE PLAINS…”

Britina interrupted, “Very good, Prunhiline. But, dear love, we will be here all night if you say your full title.” Britina paused, then asked, “Assassin? For her or me?” she directed this routine question to Morfark, THE ASSASSIN.

“Oh, uh, you must be Britina?” Morfark asked, standing and extending his hand to shake.

“I am,” Britina said, shaking his hand. She liked the polite assassins but had more enjoyment in killing the arrogant ones.

“Well, then, you.” He smiled. It was a pleasant, non-threatening smile as he released her hand.

“Very well, shall we step outside? I would rather we not make a mess of my sitting room.” Britina sighed. She hated messes in her house, especially the messes executing assassins make. The ones that panic make the biggest messes, splattering blood all over the rooms and leaving bloody handprints everywhere. The beggars at least contain the mess to where they are kneeling.

“Maybe another day, my dear. I have to be getting back to the dark temple. I’ll show myself out.” As he walked to the door, he commented over his shoulder, “Hey, Prun, are we hitting the jousting tournament next week? I have a good feeling that the match between Sir Finkelberry and Sir Brute will be good.”

“Sure, Morfark. Sir Finkelberry is a beast; I’m a big fan! I’ll see you then.” Prunhiline said with excitement as the assassin left.

Once the man had left, Britina sat in her favorite chair. “So, Morfart?”

“Morfark, with a ‘k,’ not a ‘t,’” Prunhiline said, still smiling.

“Right, dear love, Morfark. He was here to assassinate me?” Britina watched Prunhiline happily eat another sandwich left on the table. Something began to bother Britina.

“Yep!” Prunhiline said as she attacked the finger sandwich, devouring it with glee.

“Dear love? What are you eating?” Britina asked, realizing what was bothering her. “Where did the sandwiches come from?” They didn’t look like what became of a sandwich when Prunhiline attempted to make one. She also forbid Prunhiline from cooking unsupervised or otherwise.

“Morfark made them and the tea. Want some? The tea's not bad, and the sandwiches are great.” Prunhiline said with a hint of guilt.

“You are eating a sandwich and drinking tea made by an assassin sent here to kill me?” Britina wasn’t surprised as Prunhiline nodded with her mouth full of food. “And you want me to partake?”

Prunhiline paused momentarily, attempting to figure out the correct answer to the question. Finally, she settled on a smile and a shrug. “Sure, it’s good.”

“It is probably better than you attempting to cook,” Britina said, getting up from her chair. Prunhiline stuffed more food into her mouth. “I take it you had as much of an eventful day as I had. Demon hordes and an assassin waiting for me at home, what a day! I think I need more than tea to go with the sandwich.” Prunhiline choked on her finger food as Britina walked into the kitchen.

“WHAT HAPPENED TO MY KITCHEN???” Britina shouted.

“Hey, Bri! You can do the capital letters thing, too! Cool!”