O Happy Dagger!

The dagger could barely believe his luck. To have been spared the rib cage and landing squarely under the diaphragm, is an incredible boon for a dagger. She was a smart one and the dagger had felt privileged to serve under her. He was saddened by her loss but hopeful for the future.

All too often, a person would try and cleave his or her breasts with the thrusting edge confusing dramatic license for a solid understanding of anatomy. If the blade should stick, it could very well end in tears. The blade could rust among the dead body’s bile, sweat and blood. No one wanted a rusty disgusting blade and they tended to be tossed to the forge.

This dagger was going to be okay. He was in a pretty noblewoman and she was with a pretty nobleman. A peasant was sure to come by pilfering soon; they had a sixth sense that seemed to tell them when nobility died. Sure, it would be a less posh life than the dagger had known before but he knew it would be a good life.

The Happy Dagger’s father, a cinquedea of some years, was always one to speak of the glory of combat but this humble dagger felt just as happy cutting apart an apple in some hovel as he did stabbing at a ruffled collar. Yes siree, things were looking up for this piece of cutlery.

…Perhaps, though war would be declared. A dagger can dream.

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