B
Barnaby was a barbarian. He had the muscles, the loincloth, and the war cry. What he didn't have was a weapon.
He had looted the Tomb of the Ancient Warlord to find one. In the center of the crypt, floating in a beam of light, was a sword. It was magnificent—platinum blade, ruby hilt, pulsating with magic.
Barnaby grabbed it. "I claim you, God-Slayer!" he roared.
"Please don't shout," a polite voice echoed in his head. "It's terribly rude."
Barnaby dropped the sword. "Who said that?"
"I did," the sword said from the floor. "My name is Percival. And I really must object to the name 'God-Slayer'. It's so aggressive. I prefer 'The Negotiator'."
"You're a sword!" Barnaby yelled, picking it up again. "You cut things!"
"I can, theoretically," Percival admitted. "But have you considered talking? Communication is the sharpest weapon of all."
Barnaby ignored him. He charged at the skeleton guards blocking the exit. He swung Percival.
Mid-swing, the sword turned soft. It became as floppy as a rubber noodle. It bounced harmlessly off the skeleton's ribcage.
"I will not be a party to violence!" Percival shrieked.
The skeleton looked confused. Barnaby looked humiliated.
"Work, you cursed metal!" Barnaby pleaded.
"Ask him about his childhood," Percival suggested.
"What?"
"The skeleton. Ask him if he felt fulfilled in his previous life."
With no other option, and the skeleton raising a rusty axe, Barnaby sighed. "Hey! You! Were you... happy? Before you died?"
The skeleton paused. It lowered the axe. It made a clacking sound that sounded like a sob. It sat down and put its skull in its hands.
"See?" Percival said smugly. "Emotional breakthrough. Much more effective than decapitation."
Barnaby walked out of the tomb, the floppy sword on his back. He became the most famous adventurer in the land. Not because he killed monsters, but because he provided free therapy to them. And Percival, the Pacifist Sword, was finally happy.