Congested Evils

Maqi.

"Amusing. You mean to tell me that she cannot find a chance to assassinate a single sheltered Sif?" a kingly figure, a beast of a man with a huge, frightening frame said with a powerful voice. "Is this not too much err to allow?"

"Please do not take it as this, First Horn," a stout old man with a wise looking face pleaded with a bow. "My disciple is a perfectionist. She prefers to take her time and strike only when she feels that her move will deal the most fatal blow possible but without anyone figuring it out the who, how and why."

The giant man seated on a very beautiful and rather artistic throne scoffed, a stream of mana leaving his nostrils.

Such paltry reasoning.

"Am I to excuse the habits of a failure masked as sharpened expertise?" he uttered.