The Little Mouth was coiled, asleep, around the dagger that was its child.
The weapon had been a challenge from one of the Meals It Could Not Eat, the smallest of the giants whose hair was spun from star-silver. The Little Mouth had made quick work of the thing; it had made itself Large, and it had chirped well, cowing the blade into submission. The voice in the dagger became still, and slept for a time. Now, when it spoke, it spoke as a sleeper does: in portents and mouthfuls of dream. It spoke of Ras Nsi, who had once held it. It spoke of the flesh it had tasted, so much flesh; it was a topic of shared interest. The Edicts held that the universe was naught but Meat and Mouths, but the dagger was neither - not exactly. Perhaps it was his Tooth, in a way. Perhaps it was his Tongue.
The Giants could not understand his speech; indeed, their understanding was so porous that they did now know he was speaking. It spoke words of comfort, all the same; of a time when the Sanguilith would finish with this plane altogether, swallow it up, and with it all the petty torments mortals must endure.
(Here's a without the K'thrissmas livery for the true Ligotti fan.)
