Though destruction thirsted for its avatar to begin manifesting before the Blues proper, and no doubt "magic" if not some unnatural force made the rules society loved to drill into your head go awry - no distress made itself known upon the green garbed reptilian man. Oh no.

Air exhaled from his reptilian lips while his lurching form rose. There would be humorous contrast in his holding of the green guitar if compared with the newly arrived malevolent being's lengthy and frankly virile weapon; yet the confidence his posture exuded when "wielding" this instrument could be comparable with the composure of a life trained swordsman more so than the reject of a bygone band playing at the local tavern's sorrow in metal form.

[img]https://i.imgur.com/RBA2vEe.png[/img]

Now sure. Smith could dig this strange cat spawning from the depths of Hell or perhaps an unusual hobby whence upon the soil below. Could dig him proper. He cleaned up some of the condoms and sugar water cups that were beneath the guitarist to sanitize himself; can't knock that none. No sir! However. Imagine the suspicion one may harbor if suddenly an extremely attractive woman thrust herself up against you when coming home from a long day of working in the mines. Never laid eyes on her before, but she was making it clear she was pining for your [i]attention[/i]; a more optimistic sort with a touch of youthful naivete might see this as quite the gift. Luck or the tidings of their person becoming the magnet of lust! 

But what if you weren't such an optimistic customer?

Well, then you might start considering just exactly why a broad you cannot for the life of you recollect getting the name of has gotten to second base with you while you're sweaty and covered in the toil of your labor which amounts to ash and feces. Theft? Murder? She one of "those girls," the gold digger stereotype? Oh to be in the music industry and have this [i]style[/i] baby, you just had to be ready for those types anywhichwhere no matter how sweaty you were sitting out in the hot sun surrounded by used tennis shoes and noodle cups, because the second your guard comes down, there comes the blade!

Now in this roundabout metaphor, the busty beautiful babe is an unannounced swordsman with a weapon longer than the hours in a hard summer's day popping out of nowhere like a substandard drug trip. Well built, head taller than your average bloke, big metal weapon; not Mr. Morwak's usual groupie. No sir. What do [u]you[/u] suppose then is the most logical prediction for such an event? A magical being has formed from the void, here in this isle of hell, coincidentally on this day at this hour in mere feet of the mighty Morwak? [b]No[/b] son, that's nonsensical. 

The obvious answer: 

[i]One of them rich magical swordsmen that Morwak must've gambled with when he was on drugs.[/i] At some parties, you are expected to partake or you will be denied entry; that's just the industry, respect it or pay the price. No doubt this fellow is loaded, carrying that big impractical blade as some kind of ceremonial flex of clout, and is here to collect on a debt owed. No other logical reason comes to mind, fella is too clean to be a simple axe murdering fanboy. Oh geeze Louis'Ann... Does Smith have egg on his face right about now. Owin' money and he can't even remember the gentleman's name. Well. Flattery will get you everywhere, they say. 

"[b][color=39b54a]Hello there sir. I hope you find this area accommodating. Ah, got any requests? I'll sing ya a song.[/color][/b]" And a flash of fanged teeth forming a smile so insincere it could spontaneously burst into cheese. Rich boys love the "plucky artist making me a custom" angle. Always do. Hell. Might earn himself a tip! Tips buy you new guitar strings.