the smuggler’s bible

Isbrand the Axe

“That’s a pretty grin you got.” Isbrand the Axe calls down the alley. “Come on over here and we can pick flowers together.”

The creature responds, but the words tangle on its fangs and come out as a wet sucking sound.

“Charming son of a bitch, aren’t you?”

There isn’t any fancy stuff, just a sudden teeth-gnashing, arm-flailing rush across the cobblestones. Isbrand has the double-bit in the air, his feet spread wide in a power stance and—really, I can’t exaggerate the importance of this part—his eye on the ball.

Some days it all comes down to timing.