Juggling the Whirlwind
But it was that Thursday that had provided the smile upon his face that week. Because deep in his cold heart, Simon detested parties. He could enjoy the company and respect the art, but as a whole, there was no real tactical advantage to be gained. Such events made one soft. Such events presented too many prying ears and too many unknown variables. Such events always brought inane banality…and danger.
The young Canadian Daeva. Kenny, his name. He was soon drawn into a game for the amusement of the mob…the Harpies swarming in like Birds of Prey. He understood their necessity. Their capacity to balance the social dynamics of a given situation. To serve as arbiters of debt and to check the forces of ego and idiocy. But Simon smiled and gave a quiet sigh at the spectacle…knowing that it was issued for nothing more than shear entertainment.
The question was simple…which was mightier, the pen or the sword? And it was there that the Warminister felt obligated to participate. The die was cast and refusal would merely add fuel to the fire, and the Khaibit was ill-equipped to handle such armaments. And yet he stood there, seven blades upon his person, gazing at the neonate and his pen. The scenarios coursed through his brain. He could simply kill the young Canadian and be branded a monster. He could beat him into the dirt. He could break his wrist and remove the pen from his person…
Bring it…
The attack came and Simon shot out his hand, the pen puncturing his arm between the radius and ulna. In one swift, fluid motion, Simon drew the pen and slammed it into Kenny’s shoulder, shattering his clavicle and nearly forcing the Neonate to the ground. In less than two seconds it was over, and smiles washed over the audience. Simon had allowed the young Canadian to save his honor, and he only trusted that his instincts had protected his own. In the aftermath, Simon pondered what they would say, what with their silver tongues and razor words…
The Alder Judex Cassio showed restraint at the impetuousness of the young and foolish bravo. Cassio, despite his usually deranged and violent nature, curbed such appetites in favor of social grace. The Warminister, despite his title and generally horrendous unthinking butchery, adapted to the situation and utilized the weapons at hand…proving the Neonate’s point…no pun intended…
Simon smiled. Sooner or later they would stop underestimating him…
The young Canadian Daeva. Kenny, his name. He was soon drawn into a game for the amusement of the mob…the Harpies swarming in like Birds of Prey. He understood their necessity. Their capacity to balance the social dynamics of a given situation. To serve as arbiters of debt and to check the forces of ego and idiocy. But Simon smiled and gave a quiet sigh at the spectacle…knowing that it was issued for nothing more than shear entertainment.
The question was simple…which was mightier, the pen or the sword? And it was there that the Warminister felt obligated to participate. The die was cast and refusal would merely add fuel to the fire, and the Khaibit was ill-equipped to handle such armaments. And yet he stood there, seven blades upon his person, gazing at the neonate and his pen. The scenarios coursed through his brain. He could simply kill the young Canadian and be branded a monster. He could beat him into the dirt. He could break his wrist and remove the pen from his person…
Bring it…
The attack came and Simon shot out his hand, the pen puncturing his arm between the radius and ulna. In one swift, fluid motion, Simon drew the pen and slammed it into Kenny’s shoulder, shattering his clavicle and nearly forcing the Neonate to the ground. In less than two seconds it was over, and smiles washed over the audience. Simon had allowed the young Canadian to save his honor, and he only trusted that his instincts had protected his own. In the aftermath, Simon pondered what they would say, what with their silver tongues and razor words…
The Alder Judex Cassio showed restraint at the impetuousness of the young and foolish bravo. Cassio, despite his usually deranged and violent nature, curbed such appetites in favor of social grace. The Warminister, despite his title and generally horrendous unthinking butchery, adapted to the situation and utilized the weapons at hand…proving the Neonate’s point…no pun intended…
Simon smiled. Sooner or later they would stop underestimating him…