The edge of a dagger is small. It's small on purpose. It's small so you can get close, then closer. Really, the ideal dagger should be enough blade to kill and not much else. It's the death that matters.
I pondered that as I walked through the ashes of Nyanyork. Oh, a ruby! I pocketed it for later.
I'm soaked in troll blood. So many different colors, I probably look like rainbow puke. I thought of the troll jam pastries I ate, and argued with myself. It's different. I snapped an intruding troll's neck with my Sloth Grip, then stabbed it's face in. Once you prepare a troll into troll jam, you're dealing with a product, an artisinal creation. An affinaged, historically tested, culturally delectable, local, delicacy
A pack of purple grass trolls rushed me. These spit poison. I got hit a few times, if I didn't have Blessing of Life I'd be dead. Two purple grass trolls tag teamed me for a double dropkick. I dodged, slipping past their incoming feet, I stabbed their knees and charged the main body of purple glass pack. I heard the two dropkickers crumble to the ground as I slit throats, spilling fluids, causing gargling noises and screams to fill the streets.
It's not like I'm against veganism. I stabbed the last one standing through it's eye, watching it writhe on the ground in pain. I lifted my boot. Veganism is fine. I smashed my boot down. A watermelon snapped and spilled it's content across the fair cat stone block streets of Nyanyork.
Yes, yes, veganism is fine. But then, so is Trollism. The creationism, production, and consumption of troll products. I should be allowed. I should have the freedom. To engage in consumption of troll-made goods. I walked past a pastry shop, cakes on display.
Despite the raging flames spotting the city, the dawn curling over the rooftops, there were still places like this. I entered, thinking, hey, won't Scott be surprised when I come back with this?
I went up to a displayed cake. Troll flour and troll jam in sacks lined under the counter. I sniffed, taking off the top of the glass display. See, doesn't smell like troll, therefore, it isn't wrong. This is merely a fruit of this world's labor, and one I will gleefully indulge in.
"Stop!" A cat with a staff held towards me burst from out of the kitchen. Steel grey eyes pierced me as the cat closed in. The cat's snarl weakened. "Are... are you human?"
I laughed, setting down the top of the display case, putting one hand on the [Dagger Princess].
"I know, right? All this blood could've been useful for troll products, but I had to kill them for violence, self-defense, and daggering reasons. The whole city surely has lost it's civility."
The cat backed off, lowering its stave. "You, uh. If you're killing those trolls, and you're hungry, help yourself."
"I will." I stole a nearby box for the cake. Would not want it dirtied by future daggerings. The cat backed off into the recesses of his shop. What a good guy.
As I skipped back across the merry many color brick road of troll blood I left in my rage, I balanced the cake with one palm. I surveyed my past daggerings as I returned. Orange skin trolls, could probably be used for citrus based foods. Snapped bones until I had a mess of them then finished them off with dagger rains from [Gifting This Wonderful World With Daggerings]. Black skin trolls sometimes had wings, so when those tried to flee I had to take careful aim with my dagger magic. They must lay all over the city, maimed, maybe burning to death. Not like I had time to track the flyers I shot down. Purple grass trolls, who I call that for their short dense fur coats, lined the streets mixed in with some berserker reds, some shitty browns, and the magic wielding blue trolls. Only a few yellows were seen, here and there, as if beacons to their own pride at existing in this dark, dark world.
I think I like daggering so much because when I dagger, something dies. I reached the sewer grate, checking each side for cat gangs or troll packs. Gratefully, I managed to complete the cake escort quest with no problems. In some escorts in games, you can't clear the mobs ahead of the escort, leading to an inevitable situation where you have to actively kill and defend the escort at the same time. Here, they are all conveniently daggered.
"Stay back!" I heard Scott yell. He had his shield up. What are you going to do? Bash me?
"It's me, it's me." I sheathed my dagger, approaching, then offering the packaged cake.
Scott peeked over his shield, then relaxed. He stared at the cake box. He took it, opening the box. "Did you—" Scott mumbled. "Do you have a fork?"
I drew my dagger, stained as it was. "Want to use this?" "No," Scott apologized. "My hands are cleaner. Are you okay? What happened to your clothes?"
"There are poison trolls who spit acid."
"Glad I didn't come with, holy shit." Scott groaned. He put down his shield, snatching a chunk of cake, he bit in. "Mmm. Better than I expected." He pointed at the cake box with a finger. "Is this vegan?"
"No way."
"I wonder what it's made of... do they have like, cows, or something, in this world?"
Should I spare him the troll details? I think it would be for the best. If he keeps on living in this world, he'll find out eventually, I'm sure. And I don't want to be the one responsible for making him a vegan. I shrugged, turned, and left.
"You going back out in that mess? Clean yourself up at least, how can you even see like that?"
"What, am I going to use the sewer water?"
"It might be cleaner." Scott cautioned.
"It also might be infected with bacteria."
"So could the troll blood all over your body!"
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That is a good point. I said goodbye, and launched myself out of the sewer grate. Where would I find a clean water source to wash off in, to reduce my risk of contamination? Then, I remembered Blessing of Life. I survived purple grass troll poison just fine. So, I'll be okay. I won't look good, for awhile, especially since I'm hungry to dagger more trolls, still.
Snarls and hisses of a cat pack closed in. I readied myself, moving into a shop. When facing these misguided feline souls trying to defend their home, it's best to keep them in close quarters where they can't surround me.
Their speed, size, and power feel like they outstrip mine, but that's only because they look ferocious while attacking. The first cat I daggered the eyes. The second cat I daggered the eyes. The third cat, eyes. And so it goes.
They don't retreat, so lying there blinded and well daggered were plenty of cats to mop up, and, I have no mop, I have a dagger.
Strolling out of the shop, a new corpse pile spotted the streets. Why is it, I feel like I'm painting?
What was the saying, "Some men just want to watch the world burn?" I walked down the streets taking my time, introducing all comers to my dagger.
The sun set, blazes of flame filling the sky above the streets. Blessing of Sight, courtesy of Curse of Blindness, allowed me to see fine in the dark. I kept pace with my patrol, not needing to go out of my way, the trolls and cats found me, and my dagger found them.
Exhausted, I finally curled up in a newly abandoned building. I rested.
The next morning I stood up, stretched, and got back to daggering. I came across Bartin, who, heroically, seems to be leading a pack of cats, mice, rabbits, and moles as one. I steered clear, not wanting to take on the level 99. The Guild left a trail of destruction through the town, as evidenced by broken buildings. Huguenot walked through them. Not that great for property values. And here I was thinking of myself as not the best person.
The gem shop I found and raided had too much to carry, so I left them. I went to a magic shop, that too, had some interesting items, but someone daggered the shop attendant so a convenient explanation of what the items did couldn't be extracted. I left those as well.
That's the problem with stealing. If you steal, you must sell, to sell, you need to launder, and then you need to buy goods, and then steal again. It's a tiresome cycle. At least with daggering, everyone living can be a buyer of what I have to offer, a shiv or stab.
I'm an equal opportunity customer-oriented service provider.
Running across a whole pack of yellow trolls, I chased them, dagger out, like they were some kind of rare prize. They ran. They run pretty fast.
"It's the dagger!"
"Run! Run!"
Are there rumors spreading? My reputation will get so bad I won't be able to dagger anymore. That saddens me. The yellow trolls sped off, injuring my pride. I just wanted to play. Do I not have value as a human being, and you, as trolls? Granted my value on offer is a daggering, so, I can understand your reluctance to buy. Really, I'm terrible.
Patrolling the empty streets, I reached the edge of Nyanyork. Cheers sounded out across the city. I got curious, and snuck towards them through a shadow spread alley. Bartin raised his sword in front of a paw-pumping crowd. Cats, mice, moles, rabbits. Not a single troll, though plenty lay below their footpaws in corpses. Huguenot stood like a monument. D'Arc fashionably flanked him while posing with rapiers. Vizar stood with a stave by the mouse demon's side. Couldn't see if T.T. Shadow was there, no Flynn, thankfully. No Slyva either.
In the dark alley I felt a tap on my shoulder, whirling around, I took a blunt arrow to my face.
"Nice job." She said.
"What? I just cut loose."
"You could have went easy on the cats."
What is she, psychic?
"Yes."
Damn elves.
"You, dagger, you may be a horrible person." She started her sermon. "But, just because you're horrible to others, doesn't mean you need to be horrible to yourself."
"So... since you're psychic, you know I did all this with the trolls?"
She screwed her eyes together. She stared at my forehead. Revulsion painted her face. Then, she latched an arrow to her bow.
"Wait, wait, if you're reading my mind I can't respond properl-" and I took an arrow to my face.
I fell to ground, letting her win. I deserve at least this much, if not more, even I would agree to that. Otherwise, I wouldn't have given my best at ending the plague of veganism through inflating the supply of troll corpses in this fair city. Now, all must eat troll, or waste food! No, of course not. I knew my efforts were fruitless, in the end. Vegans will find a way. I sighed.
Slyva crouched down next to me, tugging at my belt. She took the [Dagger Princess]. I looked her in the eye, not challenging her, but questioning, and the psychic elf picked up my point.
"Flynn will be after this. I think it's best for the both of us you let me have it."
I nodded. Please, go right ahead. I see only bad things in my future when it comes to elves. I pulled the arrow out of my forehead. Slyva shrunk back from me, patting my shoulder.
"The elves won't leave you alone. But, they won't interfere too harshly. You've scored them a victory, here, in this human ruled land. Now, your Crimson Queen has the throne, and she'll be used as a pawn for the elves." Slyva rose. She shook the [Dagger Princess] in her hand, tucking it away in her belt. "You have the power from here on out to be as good as you want, or to dagger all you want. As long as you stay alongside your Crimson Queen. Do you understand?"
"T-thanks?" I said. She's thinking of me? I wonder why. Psychic types must be different.
Slyva walked towards the crowd, leaving me in the alley. Filing through the cat demons and rabbit demons, she reached the foot of the stage where Bartin held court. She ascended the stage, smiling brightly and waving to the cheering crowd. Something threw her into the air and caught her.
Ahh, you see. This is what makes a hero a hero. Not Heroes like me and Scott, no. A hero does it, because they like it. They like people, demons, sentientence. Eating troll products becomes an issue for them, instead of an annoyance. They have their ideals, they have precious things to protect, instead of themselves and theirs to defend. I looked on at the light filled stage, at Bartin's raised blade. I turned in alley, cheers at my back, as I walked the other way.
Some people, we're just daggerers. We take, and we may not even do it well. We're selfish. We're scared, we're into scrouging what little riches we can out of the lives of others. I, I have a dagger. But, that never meant I have to be a daggerer.
I walked out of the alley. Snarls and hisses from a cat pack greeted me. I kept my dagger sheathed, for this one time only, "Gentlecats, I will do you a service!" I cracked my knuckles, a terrible grin spreading my face, as I summoned a sea of daggers above me, ready to strike.
The cats faces slackened.
"It's the dagger!"
"Run! Run!"
"Oh, Catulus save us!"
They sprang away, praying to their god. My mouth is sad. Disappointment. Despair. Loneliness? My shoulders lost their tightness, and my daggers unsummoned in the sky above. I suppose this is my reward for trying to be a good person? Really, caught between two extremes of snickering evilness killing babies for fun and profit and the angels of grace, beauty, idealism, and veganism or whatever, I know I'm falling somewhere towards the snickering side.
But, hey. I placed my hands on my hips, soaked to the bone in troll blood, I sneezed. I have what I have. I headed back to the sewer grate. Maybe her majesty the Crimson Queen will be pleased at the news of her city.