What's A King to a God? [Charlotte]
Jul 5, 2015 20:11:22 GMT -6
Post by Charlotte on Jul 5, 2015 20:11:22 GMT -6
It was painful to hear how skewed the man’s assumption of her was. Charlotte couldn’t find humor in the situation like the assassin did, only in his read of it. Do good? Charlotte was a woman whose self-proclaimed profession was manipulating people and situations to benefit both her and her employers. The only reason her targets didn’t end up dead was because they served a higher purpose alive and acting as Charlotte and her employers wanted. She could barely hold her tongue as he implied idealism in her work; if anything, the only idealists were her clients. When it was her boots on the ground, she didn’t have the time for frivolous thought, especially when she was faced with the challenge of changing mindsets instead of erasing them.
Charlotte had been ready to insert her retort into the conversation, but instead found herself silent to the man’s rant, quiet to his justifications for his actions. What he shared was all she expected to hear from any assassin she was unfortunate enough to cross paths with. Of course he was too blinded by the jingling coin bag at the end, too consumed with the thought of his next meal or purchasing his next blade for his collection. What an unfortunate life to live.
But as the man approached her, taking her wrist and pointing her dagger directly at his heart, Charlotte found herself at a loss for her own thoughts. She had tried to pull away, but even his gentle grip had kept her blade angled ahead at him. When she was young, Charlotte used to believe it was gold that was the most reliable way to move a man to the path you wanted; years of having men only drawn by the pay ditch out on jobs with her had convinced her otherwise. But this man, pointing her blade at his chest, made her falter. Men who were in it for the pay would never willingly die for their job, not unless they knew they’d be killed for not completing it.
Too, his observation of the world was needlessly pessimistic. If there was nothing to do to fix it, Charlotte would have no reason to spend three weeks with a count, learning every little thing about him in an attempt to sway him rather than perpetuate the broken system that was the court subterfuge. While certain assassinations were a necessary evil, Charlotte saw no reason the count should die, should not be used because he was valuable rather than laid to waste.
Charlotte was tired of his talk, tired of his endless assumptions and his fractured views. She was incensed that her employers though it wise to send the man to clean up a mess that wasn’t there, to nearly ruin any chance she had of succeeding. And she would succeed; if this man expected her to understand why he wouldn’t just turn away, he’d have to empathize with her when she didn’t just let him walk over her.
Could she guarantee her choice would salvage her job, save the count and expunge any guilt from her name? She didn’t know, but letting the man go did nothing but hurt her. Mentally she was almost taken aback, realizing what her gut was drawing her to do as the assassin drew close, his hot breath on her cheek, making her feel sick to her stomach. She had never killed a man before, but it wasn’t something she would bar herself from if the circumstance called for it.
“Well, you’re right about one thing,” Charlotte hissed venomously, “your empty words won’t move me.” In an instant, she thrust the blade forward as quickly as she could; if he wasn’t quick enough, the blade would quickly end him, but if he was, she’d suffer the consequences of botching her first true attempt to kill someone.
Charlotte had been ready to insert her retort into the conversation, but instead found herself silent to the man’s rant, quiet to his justifications for his actions. What he shared was all she expected to hear from any assassin she was unfortunate enough to cross paths with. Of course he was too blinded by the jingling coin bag at the end, too consumed with the thought of his next meal or purchasing his next blade for his collection. What an unfortunate life to live.
But as the man approached her, taking her wrist and pointing her dagger directly at his heart, Charlotte found herself at a loss for her own thoughts. She had tried to pull away, but even his gentle grip had kept her blade angled ahead at him. When she was young, Charlotte used to believe it was gold that was the most reliable way to move a man to the path you wanted; years of having men only drawn by the pay ditch out on jobs with her had convinced her otherwise. But this man, pointing her blade at his chest, made her falter. Men who were in it for the pay would never willingly die for their job, not unless they knew they’d be killed for not completing it.
Too, his observation of the world was needlessly pessimistic. If there was nothing to do to fix it, Charlotte would have no reason to spend three weeks with a count, learning every little thing about him in an attempt to sway him rather than perpetuate the broken system that was the court subterfuge. While certain assassinations were a necessary evil, Charlotte saw no reason the count should die, should not be used because he was valuable rather than laid to waste.
Charlotte was tired of his talk, tired of his endless assumptions and his fractured views. She was incensed that her employers though it wise to send the man to clean up a mess that wasn’t there, to nearly ruin any chance she had of succeeding. And she would succeed; if this man expected her to understand why he wouldn’t just turn away, he’d have to empathize with her when she didn’t just let him walk over her.
Could she guarantee her choice would salvage her job, save the count and expunge any guilt from her name? She didn’t know, but letting the man go did nothing but hurt her. Mentally she was almost taken aback, realizing what her gut was drawing her to do as the assassin drew close, his hot breath on her cheek, making her feel sick to her stomach. She had never killed a man before, but it wasn’t something she would bar herself from if the circumstance called for it.
“Well, you’re right about one thing,” Charlotte hissed venomously, “your empty words won’t move me.” In an instant, she thrust the blade forward as quickly as she could; if he wasn’t quick enough, the blade would quickly end him, but if he was, she’d suffer the consequences of botching her first true attempt to kill someone.