(no subject)

Havelock impatiently combs slightly tangled black hair back from his forehead with his fingers, eyes somewhat brighter than usual.

"Indeed, yes," he says, voice still level but somehow dreamy.

"People have ever feared death, and yet still it is glorified - soldiers are idolised, we assassins form a respected and powerful Guild. Fear and fascination."

He takes a meditatively unrestrained drink - the high alcohol content has long ceased to be a consideration.

"Is it strange to you?"