Form Dictates Function

The first had been a rock from the garden but it hadn't even quivered. The second had been a coin. The only thing it did was give off a noise like a muffled metallic scream. That shook me. For the third I chose a stick. It had twisted and curled, writhing like a worm in a puddle. That was enough to consider the stick my first real success.

I pressed my fingertips to the tiny statue of a knight that I had taken from the Father-principal's office.

“Wake up.” I commanded.

White flakes of stone broke off, falling like hail stones to the top of the desk, as it began to move its arms. A gauntleted hand flipped up the visor revealing a stern face and the thickest mustache I'd ever seen. His eyes widened at the sight of me.

"My God, a giant!" he said. He stiffened and took a deep breath. Drawing his sword, he pointed it up at me. "In the name of the Georgian Empire, submit or die."

"What's your name, Sir Knight?"

"Not a giant but a devil!" He said.

"Sleep." I commanded.

The knight froze in mid-lunge and died.