Monday, January 31, 2011

My eyes take in the blades in the dim light of the tavern. They shine with an unnatural radiance and I'm almost afraid to touch them, lest I dim their shine. But I reach out, caressing their deadly beauty. I heft one; it fits my hand as though custom-made, and it's perfectly balanced. I could throw this straight to a target and miss no more than one time in a hundred. I hold it to the light, let it glimmer along the edge. I could shave with this blade - if I wished to perform a sacrilege.

I examine the second blade, unsurprised to find that it's equally as fine. When I look across the table to Keon, I find myself for a moment unable to speak.

"Lord Blackthorne," I say at last. "I am a soldier, not a courtier, and my words are not fine - but this is wonderful work, worthy almost of the sons of Ivaldi - and I might venture more if I did not fear to offend them. These are not merely pretty things, but forged for battle, and it shows in every line, in the perfect weight and balance, and in the keenness of their edges.

I accept these gifts in the spirit that they are given, and I thank you."

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