Salving my conscience
Zaknafein stepped back from the body on the floor to his feet. Blood dripped from the sharp edge of his blade, an echoing sound in the eternal darkness of the realms beyond the surface of Faerûn. Why was it always a dirty job? And why did always the young ones have to die?
He squat down to the drow who lay convulsed with pain on the floor of the cold polished and cobweb decorated aisle ~ a horrible place to breath his last. The soldier was not old ~ not even thirty years, Zaknafein assumed as he turned the ebony skinned face into a direction in which he could see the flickering red eyes which were so full of fear. No matter what they tried to teach those children at Melee Magthere, killing was so very different to dying. . .
Of course this one here had tried to fight for his house ~ but against someone like Zak he was without chances. The Weapon Master of house Do'Urden sighed before he got up again. Blood made the floor slippery and he was careful not to step into the wet crimson