A mist hangs in the grass, and the early sun splashes an angelic whiteness through the trees. It’s funny how beautiful everything gets before you kill someone.
Ruttingham looks too young to be a lord, but there he is, across the field. He’s haughty and well-groomed, but nervous. I don’t know what it is that makes the young ones try. I suppose they want me dead to prove a point, but that’s the first thing you learn: it doesn’t prove anything.
The best is choosing the weapon – they’re ready for gun, sword. They panic when I pick air or bacon.