Ink, Blood and Curses - Sorrel and the dead ghostwriter
Jan 7, 2022 10:52:09 GMT
Delilah Daybreaker and willemf like this
Post by stephena on Jan 7, 2022 10:52:09 GMT
When you’re attacked by a professional killer, it’ll be one of three types – solder, mercenary, assassin. This goes for wand wavers and god botherers too – it’s not the tools, it’s the attitude.
Soldiers fight for an idea – the glory of the blah blah blah. Protecting the thingummyjig. This is a weakness. They get emotional. Blood rushing, heart pumping. They may be yelling and screaming in rage, hate or fear. The adrenaline has their hands shaking. They will miss more times than they hit. Your chance of survival? 50/50 or better.
Mercenaries fight for a living. They have objectives, but indiscriminate slaughter is rarely a good business strategy. They will usually enter negotiations if you surrender. Ransom is a nice side earner, after all, and they can finish the job with less risk of getting killed themselves. They don’t get paid if they die. Your chance of survival? High, assuming you’ve got access to cash.
Assassins, ideally, don’t fight. They don’t want to look good or win the praise of a grateful population. These are the ones who’ve had the emotion trained out of them. Heartbeat steady. Hands firm. No yelling or screaming.
They’re artisans of death. They appreciate subtlety. They’re inspired by nuance. They’re good at their job because they enjoy it. And, sorry about this, but you are the job. Your chance of survival… well, even the best laid plans go wrong but gambling on making it out alive is a sucker bet.
Sorrel didn’t fight. She killed. But she’d been making some very poor choices recently. For one thing, scars.
Soldiers wear their battle scars with pride. Mercenaries accept them as part of the job. Assassins see them as a poor performance review. Anything that required more than ten stitches and Sorrel knew professionals who’d retire on the spot.
If there were such a thing as an assassin’s bar, you’d be killed for reading about it for a start. But as it’s a fiction, let’s pretend there was. Somewhere light and airy with a garden. Assassins like gardens for so many reasons, none of them good.
If Sorrel turned up at this entirely fictional bar with her current level of scar tissue, they’d assume she was there for her farewell drinks.
But as there is no bar that isn’t an issue. In fact, pretend you never even read about a fictional bar. In fact…
Oh I shouldn't have mentioned the bar. Look, I’ve got to go. I can't finish this story now. If anyone asks, you never met me.
What are you waiting for? Run!
Soldiers fight for an idea – the glory of the blah blah blah. Protecting the thingummyjig. This is a weakness. They get emotional. Blood rushing, heart pumping. They may be yelling and screaming in rage, hate or fear. The adrenaline has their hands shaking. They will miss more times than they hit. Your chance of survival? 50/50 or better.
Mercenaries fight for a living. They have objectives, but indiscriminate slaughter is rarely a good business strategy. They will usually enter negotiations if you surrender. Ransom is a nice side earner, after all, and they can finish the job with less risk of getting killed themselves. They don’t get paid if they die. Your chance of survival? High, assuming you’ve got access to cash.
Assassins, ideally, don’t fight. They don’t want to look good or win the praise of a grateful population. These are the ones who’ve had the emotion trained out of them. Heartbeat steady. Hands firm. No yelling or screaming.
They’re artisans of death. They appreciate subtlety. They’re inspired by nuance. They’re good at their job because they enjoy it. And, sorry about this, but you are the job. Your chance of survival… well, even the best laid plans go wrong but gambling on making it out alive is a sucker bet.
Sorrel didn’t fight. She killed. But she’d been making some very poor choices recently. For one thing, scars.
Soldiers wear their battle scars with pride. Mercenaries accept them as part of the job. Assassins see them as a poor performance review. Anything that required more than ten stitches and Sorrel knew professionals who’d retire on the spot.
If there were such a thing as an assassin’s bar, you’d be killed for reading about it for a start. But as it’s a fiction, let’s pretend there was. Somewhere light and airy with a garden. Assassins like gardens for so many reasons, none of them good.
If Sorrel turned up at this entirely fictional bar with her current level of scar tissue, they’d assume she was there for her farewell drinks.
But as there is no bar that isn’t an issue. In fact, pretend you never even read about a fictional bar. In fact…
Oh I shouldn't have mentioned the bar. Look, I’ve got to go. I can't finish this story now. If anyone asks, you never met me.
What are you waiting for? Run!