The mortal dwelling was quiet—too quiet for the grand presence of Abaddon, Scourge of the Forgotten Tombs, Devourer of Silence, and now, apparently, proud owner of a Blue-green tricycle.

He sat astride the tiny contraption in the hallway, knees jutting absurdly high, cloak dragging behind him like a funereal veil. His face, as always, was solemn. Gravely so. The sort of expression one might expect from a being contemplating the end of time itself—not from someone preparing to pedal past the laundry room.

“Behold!” he declared, gripping the handlebars with a regal air. “This vessel of mortal transport shall bend to my will!”

With an imperious shove of his slippered foot, Abaddon began his journey. The tricycle squeaked, wobbled, and then, with surprising grace, picked up speed. He rounded a corner—too sharply—and the left wheel caught on a rug. There was a brief, tragic moment of suspension in which time itself seemed to gasp.

Then—THUD.

Abaddon lay sprawled on the floor, tricycle overturned, one wheel spinning idly like a mocking halo above the scene of the fall. A few Fruit Loops scattered from the small bowl he had been balancing on his lap.