Before the advent of modern medicine, a rusty dagger would have made a much better assassination weapon than a new shiny one.
Depending on the situation, if you wanted to kill the target right away a new sharp dagger would likely be the better option. If you wanted to draw out their death the rusty dagger would be better.
Well, the logic I was going with it was stab efficiency. Then again, shoving a knife into the neck means that both have the same efficiency in the short term, but the new dagger wins in the long term.
Ah, there they go reminiscing about the "good old times" again
How would the Lord Father react to the Founding Fathers tho??
this ended up a lot more serious and different from the other snippets:
His father’s eyes are mocking, and he hates it. Hates the way it makes him feel the way he did a long time ago, when he had been very small and knew nothing of the great cities down south or across the sea, turning over the alien syllables of what Arthur said was his name with a clumsy tongue. He remembers Arthur patiently writing the strange letters out, the dark strokes of ink bold and confident against the light-coloured parchment.
(“Your name is Alfred. It was the name of a great king of mine long ago.”)
He steels himself. He’s not a child anymore, and he no longer looks up but level at his father’s face. “You think I’m a fool, just because I dare to hope for a better world.”
“Not because you hope; everyone of us hopes.” Arthur’s voice is calm. “No, you are a fool because of your delusion that you are somehow better than me. Us. That the empty words of foolish and opportunistic men are somehow enough to sweep away the rot of the quarrelsome, decadent and vicious Old World.”
His father’s dismissiveness still stings the way it did when he had been a boy. His nails dig into his palms. “Funny you’d say that, when so many of your own people are the ones who believe that the world can change.”
It is true. He has yet to set foot in the Old World, but the Old World came to him in streams of ideas; books, letters and pamphlets. He had greedily devoured the thick tomes and treatises of Arthur’s philosophers and visionaries.
“Well then, tell me. What change are you fighting for, Alfred? Freedom? As declared and exhorted by hypocrites?” Arthur’s tone is derisory.
The sick feeling in his stomach is matched by a hot surge of hatred towards the man who raised him. “And who made me this way? Your people tainted me with this. Built a vast empire off it,” he spat. He remembers being very small and understanding very little, but picking up on the curious stares he was met with whenever his father introduced him as his son. He didn’t look like his father at all, people had always whispered. Some had said it nastily.
His father doesn’t flinch. “You’re such a child. How little you know. You may be enamoured with the lofty ideals proffered by those charlatans, but you will soon learn the danger of making promises you cannot keep.” There’s something bitter in Arthur’s voice, something that speaks of personal experience.
He stiffens. “I’m not making promises to anyone.”
“You are. Or at least you will. To those who breathe the life into us.” Arthur’s gaze is sharp. “What our people join together, they can easily unmake.”
Alfred wills himself to keep his voice steady. “I can’t help what I feel. That’s what we are; you ought to know. Multitudes, contradictions and paradoxes. I don’t know what will happen in the future. What else can I do but go forward?”
“Then all the harder you will fall when it all comes apart.”
Alfred turns to go. His father is wrong, and he will prove it. “Then I’ll fall, Father. And remake myself piece by piece, over and over. Just as you and the rest of our kind always have.”