I loved the Black Company by Glen Cook at the time (even if the end of the series left me a bit of marble). The very idea of having a company of mercenaries, feared, inflexible, neither good nor bad but certainly not choir boys, I agree.
I always wanted to do a little wink in my writings without ever having done so. Mostly because he must above all avoid copying and manage to make something that did his own soul, his own personality. In short if it's to do the same thing is not interesting.
However, I found a little rough mixing two desires, one of the company and that of the black man inflexible, which kills not for pleasure but because he believes that normal, healthy. A sort of hand of death that hangs over everyone.
Until now I had completely forgotten this draft so no I do not intend to continue it, whatever ... ;)
The man walked slowly on the village square. Tall and slim, her long limbs were enclosed in a tunic of black silk, the purest. Leather laces kept different sheaths on his body, each containing a gun. Shoulder pads, descending order cursive along his neck and his back.
Other men, harnessed armor dark, dirty coal, had allowed them to approach the place without being spotted. Now they maintained the most recalcitrant to the ground. One of them already bathed in his blood, we hardly noticed in the moonlight. The earth drank greedily yet "... and she did not finally get thirsty, thought hatch.
Men, women and children present trembled, they knew why he was here. They knew what he had done to Pirnuit at Tirnuan and Corpshel too. At that moment he had even not need his knack for finding the culprits, who had driven to the village seddition. Those whose mouth was filled with words like "liberty, equality, injustice" and a head full of glory, wealth and women. " He grimaced. It Y'avait young, much too much. Women too. Basically he had to accept his role or he would not survive. Plus it would sink into the rebel lands more people would be involved, the more it would have to prevail. But at the same time he was sad for them, he had to deal first with small villages to get the necessary reputation, obliged to make such, perhaps later he could show kindness.
His soldiers awaited his orders, they were probably as scared of it than those whose lives were at once in the divine balance. "Divine" giggled hatched the idea. Since when the divine had to do in the stories of men, unless a new name was found with money and power, the divine has no place here, in another world perhaps.
Her face alone inspired fear, because that's where everything came from. A dark shadow covered his right eye, hiding in plain sight as if it had been melted into the shadows. The veil was hung like a crescent moon, wedding face as if it had been smooth, non-existent. Slowly his fingers rose and unhooked the bottom, lifted the veil and tiara hung in small discrete holding it in place. He brushed his fingers gently on his tunic, as for wiping sweat, and started walking toward the people kneeling. His eye was completely obscure a reflection as it can sometimes observed at the bottom of a well while it was dark. That was the only indication that he was alive, real and he scanned the faces one by one.
He carried his stick under his nose, disturbed by the strong smell of fear emanating from the crowd. The soldiers departed on his way, that to remove the hand that held a man kneeling. Anyway in general they did not dare get up. The first was praying fervently, his face dripping with sweat in the cool of the night, his thinning hair around a balding were sticky and greasy locks Coles. ECLO overcame his disgust and looked the man over the loan. Bete yes, sometimes naughty, jowls quivering, such fervor, what have you to hide my daddy? "He mumbled softly unintelligible. He hesitated, his role was to clean the country of rebels and supporters of the Duke of Albie and not to track criminals. Yet when he turned aside to bring his eyes to another man kneeling form had ceased to pray and bleeding to death in the mud, cutting a gash ran along the throat, bubbling slightly before drying up.
His hands were playing the knife while the body fell, the screams were heard and that people were trying to flee. "Guilty, Not Guilty, Guilty, Guilty."
blades dug into the orbits, under the clavicle, slit throats. Each was entitled to a death that was consistent with its peach, long and painful, slow and quiet, fast and painless. "Peach? He giggled again, it was really time it is released to religious word and it should continue. He looked at the young boy who was facing him. Oh well he had worn one or two letters as he had found it exciting but it was not a bad fund. He put out his hand and smiled, patting his head kindly. He heard a soldier
bend double to vomit and wrinkled eyes watching the captain. It gulped and hurried to take the soldier out of sight. He did not like being disturbed in his work, is when one is upset we made mistakes. A woman was protecting her child crying. He wondered what exactly she was protecting him, she did not even when he could never hurt a child? People are so strange when they are scared. He crouched down and gently lifted her chin. Tears had swollen and biting his eyes, his lips trembled and hinted at a trickle of drool. She was still pretty, if account were taken of his prominent forehead and his two broken teeth. "Victim ... but is it forgivable? . He thought a moment. "You love yes .... What a pity." He plunged the blade gently under the heart and collapsing without a sound without a sob. He took the child in her arms and looked for a better mother to him. The previous choice was decidedly not knowing his men. He found her, terrified of course, less pretty, perhaps, just a little young maybe. She wept bitterly, crying with fear. But his face was smooth, smooth any wrongdoing, any hatred, any misfortune. He knelt beside her and asked her voice soft but masculine. "As will you take care of it? He needs a mother. You have this desire is that not? to be a mother. He smiled, spoke softly as they sat for tea and not in the middle of a performance.
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