ruth be told, I don’t really care for guns.
Oh, to be sure, I’ve had my fair share of firearms. I had a double barrelled flintlock that I won in a fair wager in Tortuga that I still have to this day. But nowadays, they have semi-automatic weapons that fire rounds so quickly that it takes all the art out of anything that might have been when I was far younger. Now what passes for skill is a complete lack of finesse. Laser sights and computer aided night vision has removed all of what would have been considered ‘sport’.
I much prefer the art and dignity of the blade. Perhaps it was because I was raised with various types of weapons in my hands, most of them a blade of one kind or another or a staff or pike, or a combination of thereof. Then there are the other arts that go with all of these things. A warrior must also be a good diplomat, they must be a good listener and a careful observer. He or she must be in touch not only with the arts of war, but also of intuition, of peace and of intellect and judiciousness. Just because you have a weapon that can render your enemy to nothingness in a single blow does not necessarily mean you should use it. Sometimes it is a greater punishment to let them live, to draw out the torture of the blade or even a slow poison, which for me is another favoured weapon of choice.
And when one has a knife or sword that is envenomed, it can more than insure the demise of one’s enemies. You don’t even have to cut very deeply, just a scratch can sometimes be enough.
OOC: My thanks to Alexandre Dumas for the inspiration.
hen I was in gaol in Port Royal for pyracy and Wytchcraft, I was kept in a dank cell. On occasion the bright light of midmorning would be just so from the rooves of the other building and the light would shine in illuminating my otherwise dark world. About a head taller than myself was a window, barred and slicked with black mildew and grime from years of moisture that ran down the walls making them slimy. 
Dear Santa…
Life Belongs to Sekhmet 