Usually 'cause they're pissed off and need someone to take it out on, or because they're pieces of shit. Normal people don't go around trying to do a kill.
You wake up, and it's to a hand around your neck and the ominous glint of a blade in the moonlight.
It's the first time you've woken up like this. You're maybe five, or six years old, and you're filled with fear first, and panic second.
But you still know better than to scream. You worry that the guards stationed outside your door would only come in and help the assailant finish the job.
So instead you slap the arm that's keeping you pinned to your bed, and it doesn't do much, except that the knife misses wherever it was meant to cut, slashing deep and bloody over your chest instead, pain slicing through your veins as your legs kick out, earning a grunt of pain when they connect with—something soft and human.
The situation starts to take shape in your head, and something else seeps in around the fear: fury. Indignation. Rage that anyone would do this to you- you're a prince.
You kick again before your attacker manages to shield himself, into that same spot, another more pronounced cry of pain. But you're maybe half your attacker's weight, and it's not enough to dislodge him, so the next time his blade flashes, it lodges into your shoulder, and it burns so much that you lose track of everything else. How hard your fists are beating into the arm around your neck. How furiously your legs are kicking at the shape above you until eventually it staggers back.
Like many times before this, you wonder why. Do you deserve to die?
But unlike the times before this, you've gotten more resourceful. The pain pounding in your head goes still, remembering the dagger under your pillow. You reach for it, clumsy, and your attacker has clearly underestimated you because you're able to draw it and bury it deep into—something. Something that drops hot blood over your chin and neck.
The assassin reels back in surprise, and you're screaming, launching forward and you know that you hurt him again, somewhere, some amount of times because there's blood spraying over your floors different from the droplets dripping from your own clothes. But you're only a child, and when the fog clears from your head you realize that the would-be assassin is gone.
It's just you, covered in blood and left without a scratch.
People really do sneak into rooms and try to kill you sometimes. ]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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[ Though that being said, he sounds a bit distant there. ]
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[ pats his arm ]
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I guess because I'm annoying?
[ Here, have an example:
It's the first time you've woken up like this. You're maybe five, or six years old, and you're filled with fear first, and panic second.
But you still know better than to scream. You worry that the guards stationed outside your door would only come in and help the assailant finish the job.
So instead you slap the arm that's keeping you pinned to your bed, and it doesn't do much, except that the knife misses wherever it was meant to cut, slashing deep and bloody over your chest instead, pain slicing through your veins as your legs kick out, earning a grunt of pain when they connect with—something soft and human.
The situation starts to take shape in your head, and something else seeps in around the fear: fury. Indignation. Rage that anyone would do this to you- you're a prince.
You kick again before your attacker manages to shield himself, into that same spot, another more pronounced cry of pain. But you're maybe half your attacker's weight, and it's not enough to dislodge him, so the next time his blade flashes, it lodges into your shoulder, and it burns so much that you lose track of everything else. How hard your fists are beating into the arm around your neck. How furiously your legs are kicking at the shape above you until eventually it staggers back.
Like many times before this, you wonder why. Do you deserve to die?
But unlike the times before this, you've gotten more resourceful. The pain pounding in your head goes still, remembering the dagger under your pillow. You reach for it, clumsy, and your attacker has clearly underestimated you because you're able to draw it and bury it deep into—something. Something that drops hot blood over your chin and neck.
The assassin reels back in surprise, and you're screaming, launching forward and you know that you hurt him again, somewhere, some amount of times because there's blood spraying over your floors different from the droplets dripping from your own clothes. But you're only a child, and when the fog clears from your head you realize that the would-be assassin is gone.
It's just you, covered in blood and left without a scratch.
People really do sneak into rooms and try to kill you sometimes. ]
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[ And his demeanor changes, from clown to serious, a little upset. ]
I didn't know you meant when you were a fucking baby.
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Ah well, it's more effective than attacking an adult.
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That's the worst.
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It's alright, it was a long time ago. I'd left my family by the time I was 16.
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[ AAAAA. ]
That's so fucked up, why are your own brothers trying to kill you?!
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My mother's from another country, so I'm not fully Almyran and they don't really like that.
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[ He hates that for Claude, stupid people and their obsession with something something purebloodedness. ]
It shouldn't even matter.
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It just seems like a stupid thing to limit yourself with.
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Well, you're still pretty young. There's a whole lot still left.
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Do you believe in me?
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Yeah?
Why wouldn't I?
[ Callback to Couchgate. ]
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Thanks then. [ pat pat ] I appreciate it.
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