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Short Story: Bloody Hands

 From: 400 Story Seeds to Crush Writer's Block by M. Kirin

Write about a character as they look at their family sword. This character enjoys wealth and fame, though their family took those by force. What does this character think when they look at that sword, the same that cut the throats of anyone who stood against their family? Does this character regret being born into that bloodline--or have they grown too used to the feeling of blood on their hands?

She went through her training routine every morning, without fail. The sword beckoned to her, called her name like the most intimate of lovers. She stood in front of the training dummy, assumed her solid stance. 

Check your alignment, use your whole body. Power comes from harmony, from the top of your head to the tips of your toes. Ground yourself and you will not be defeated. She imagined her foe as it crumpled under her steady onslaught. The weak should be culled; the strong should endure. That was the way it should be.

There was no blood on her sword, not today, at least. She almost felt disappointed that the last of the stragglers were cut down weeks ago. The coup, as glorious as it had been, had been far from bloodless. The Darkwoods, true to their name, reclaimed their ancestral home. She remembered how this sword had led them to victory, how her sire had used it to slay their enemies, only to fall to treachery.

She had pried the blade from his cold fingers, slew the traitor in turn and led her family to victory. Even now, the double-edged blade gleamed in the morning light. The cross guard of black enchanted metal ringed with gold, the pommel of tight leather. A greatsword for a great warrior. A symbol of supremacy.

She had held it aloft in triumph at the end of the campaign. It was in her hand as she swore fealty to the new Emperor. It was on her side as she married the love of her life, a champion in his own right. And she knew she would pass it on to her children, and her children's children, for so many generations of Blackwoods to defend the realm. For years, they had languished in the shadows, now they basked in the sun.

She finished her morning workout and regarded her precious weapon. Life was a struggle, with winners and losers. Those were facts. The winners lived, the losers died. As long as she and her loved ones were safe and prospered, that was all that mattered. Sometimes, blood must be spilled, and if her soul was damned for taking the responsibility, so be it.

She felt no regrets. 




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