I keep hearing this. It seems as obligatory as sensible shoes, sensible stilettos, and sensible lovers who dive overboard at appropriate moments to rescue your…
…but I digress.
I haven’t actually tried it (brilliant alchemists are rare, ESPECIALLY mad ones, and one oughtn’t treat them like sausage. Also, they make terrible sausage)…but I simply can’t believe this is helpful. I’m going to give you an idea of what I assume happens in the head of someone motivated by fear of death.
~The Dark Lord
Erm. This is the Narrator. In this particular version of Reality, we haven’t told the Dark Lord about chemistry. We just thought it was, erm, some of you probably KNOW chemistry and we don’t, so we’d have to have you assassinated by the dark of night.
Which is REALLY expensive.
~The Narrator
~I, for one, just wanted to thank you for all the options to display myself on a page. It’s rare, except among third and fourth graders, usually.
~The Tilda
_________
We’re sorry to have confused you with a trip through so many weird, complicated mind. The mind you’re about to enter is weird, complicated, and about to die. You can tell it’s not the other minds. Nobody is THAT pedantic.
Also, the screaming? All him. Sorry.
“Of course, my Liege”, Damion screamed. “I shall certain have the Elixir of Life for you by Sundown!” He peered briefly out the window. He gestured to one of the many, many guards and said, “Er, would you draw that, if you would be so kind?”
If you could see into Damion’s mind, it would be entirely occupied to find an incredibly new and brilliant way to create the Elixir of Life, at which alchemists had spent centuries using their entire lives in pursuit merely of clues of what it would be like.
But that was okay.
The Dark Lord was served by Dark Elves, who all held Dark Crossbows, which, had he had time lucidity, he would have thought a bit much.
He sighed.
He shrugged.
Immediately, the seven elite assassins on the roof smashed through the thatch and held knives to his throat.
“Was that, by any chance, the infamous self-death procedure of the ancient order of the Turtle?”
“The WHAT?”
The head assassin looked at the others. They all shrugged.
“Sorry,” said one of them, as he backflipped twenty feet and landed on the roof again, a roof whose homey flavor had not been increased by the seven huge holes in it.
Two hours later, when the (small) number of non-dead assassins had been reduced to three, they had a lovely and productive conversation.
Try THAT with the sword of Damocles hangin’ over your head, buster.
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