An Assassin's Knife

-Internal monologue from Siren
I flung yet another throwing knife into the training dummy, where it embedded into the neck so close to the last one that I heard the sound of metal grating on metal. Practice was soooo boring, cause it wasn't like training dummies screamed in horror and agony as blood sprayed from severed arteries or anything, or rewarded me with the intimacy of getting to devour their dying gasps. But I guess I couldn't let myself get complacent. Mortals practically died if I looked at them the wrong way, but as the assassin queen of Third District, it wouldn't be long before someone stronger tried to muscle in on my turf. Angels, fey, Reds... supernatural life in New Z'hrat is such a a gods-d--ned mess.
I'd been reborn knowing knives, the rhythmic, fluid, dance-like motion of combat. Master had trained me well in my past life. The steel innately felt like it was part of me, an extension of my hand and a sliver of my soul. Like a knife, an assassin had to remain concealed until she was needed, quick and sharp in both mind and body. The risk of failure was too great to be anything but.
And that meant more boring training.