One thing you could say about Melichor. He was very polite. A senile old woman, clinging desperately to one of four podiums which had by now lost power. As the crowd surged and fled in terror behind her, flames engulfed the classic and easily recognized multi-layer garish backdrops of The Price Is Right. In a sea of madness she was an island not of sanity but of more madness, the complete and utter denial of realiy. Shedding the reality in which all of her dreams could be burned so close to fruition this nag - her yellow sticker called her 'Esther' - had instead formed a new reality, answerable only to her total lack of a discernable conscience, in which Bob Barker was not being as co-operative as he could have been.
"Where are their nametags? Are we on the air?" the old woman demanded fiercely, her voice both powerful and bone-thin at the same time. "Hi, Fred! He has shingles, so he couldn't come today..."
Ruin spread its unearthly wings and struck at these, the studios of Burbank. Through it all Gwydyon had maintained a sense of presence and good grace. Melichor was the soul-devouring hellspawn which they were here to destroy once and for all. Surely, murdering an innocent old woman would defy the very values that they were here to defend. Susa-no-O had the same look on his face - perplexed, wholly unprepared for the particular form of derangment that was showing itself potent and everlasting. Gwydyon, therefore, felt something that he was certain could have been similar to a pang of guilt when he lifted his sword over his shoulder. Muscles that were well-trained and knew their tasks all too well responded to the call of Gwydyon's mind. His heavy brow wrinkled with dissatisfaction as he hurled his sword with all of his godly might.
"I hope I win this popcorn maker! Then I can make popcorn at home! Fred always euAUGHGAUGH!"
Soaring backwards as she had when the sword struck her in the chest, Esther's lifeless bloody lips hovered over a gaping chest wound and an ancient Welsh blade that had pinned her to the first row of cushioned seats without mercy. Susa-no-O turned stunned eyes on Gwydyon, stunned eyes that quickly reflected his approval for the move. Gwydyon's guilt escaped from him as air in much the same way that bubbling blood had escaped from Esther's prison of lips and teeth. At last she was still. Melichor turned to face them, one eyebrow raised high on his forehead - every wrinkle on that sinister face, devoid of either empathy or compassion, was a fold in the skin made by one of the souls which Melichor had devoured.
"That was a dick move, gentlemen," 'Bob' informed them. "Not even I would have killed the old woman."