On second thought, when everyone there was understandably on edge about the whole might still try to assassinate them thing, sharpening Zevran’s knives felt like a bad idea. But there he was, still a few paces away from camp, dragging the whetstone in rhythmic strokes over one of many blades.
Shk. Shk. Shk.
He would need it later, he decided, and not for the reason most of them thought. The first chance he got, as soon as there were no eyes on him--and there were eyes on him constantly, as conspicuous of a character he cut--he would vanish.
Zevran looked up from his work for a moment, glancing at the crackling fire, where their little band of misfits were no doubt sharing whatever passed for supper in the wilds. It was better not to approach them. He couldn’t come within twenty paces without meeting a stone barrier of stares. Figurative. The wounds were still fresh. Figurative. And literal too, he supposed. And so he returned diligently to his work.
Shk. Shk. Shk.
