@orestei It is. It would be. For a moment there's only panting breaths, the ebbing stillness of a duel quickly won, the hush of sand disturbed where Feyd-Rautha kneels defeated. Only the moons bear witness. The crysknife draws a prick at the hollow of his bared throat, the only blood drawn this night. Twin blades, no doubt poisoned, lay dashed well enough away for Paul to feel comfortable in forgetting them. He would not die tonight. Yet, neither of them should be here. This isn't what he'd seen. What had shifted? What had broken the glass? "A Harkonnen assassin speaks of humanity. Does he also see the irony?"
It was reflex that sent his hand to his neck, to deflect that primitive blade, but the Fremen was quick. Feyd's gloved hand grabbed at the air, only to find the crysknife had aleady withdrawn, and his skin stung for it.
He didn't need to see it to know the wound was small. Why? Was this his own tactic, turned against him? The thought flit across his mind, only to be cast aside; for if that were the case, he'd be dead in minutes.
"An assassin?" The incredulity came with ease. His hands dropped to his side, fingers sifting through the sand at his knees. an idle motion, flexing the stiff shoulders of his still suit - a still suit that two cycles ago had never been worn. It would have been nice to break it in a little more before running into, well. This.
"Would it be any less ironic for a Fremen to speak of it?"
