Dolor reluctantly stood up from his chair and walked up to the elf. They walked out of the Captain’s office and proceeded down a long, dimly lit corridor. Being inside Petros’ office made Dolor forget that they were in a tavern; the soundproofing spells cast by the elf negated all the noises coming from the hustle and bustle of Lower Deck’s patrons, the echoes of which were now reaching Dolor and his host as they continued down the hallway. The stone walls were decorated with magic lamp lights illuminating two parallel rows of portraits.
The portraits depicted elves dressed in noble or military attire, posing with grace. Petros suddenly stopped and made a sharp turn in front of one of the portraits. At first glance, to Dolor, it looked like a portrait of an old man dressed like some noble from centuries ago, until he realized that something was wrong. The old man had a receding gray hairline with the remainder of his thinning hair tied into a small tail. His face was covered in wrinkles, and the corners of his eyes were decorated with prominent crow’s feet. He wore a short, pointy beard with a mustache, and his ears…Dolor finally realized what was so uncanny about this image. Dolor, like most other people, had never seen an elf that looked that old, no matter what age they were. Elves are incapable of growing facial hair, just as they are incapable of having a receding hairline or having old wrinkly skin.
“I see you look a little perplexed by my late grandfather’s appearance, Lance Corporal,” asked Petros, noticing bewilderment on Dolor’s face.
“Your ancestor? Elves are not supposed to look like this, no matter how old they get, no? Why does he look like an old human with a beard and wrinkles all over his face?” asked Dolor.
“Because, my dear Dolor, Grandfather was a half-bred elf. You see, he was born of an elf mother and a goblin father, so he was a half-goblin. Goblins and elves rarely intermarry, even in our current progressive times, mostly due to the elves' inherent feeling of superiority to all other races, even humans, despite serving a human regime. Well, Dolor, back when old Grandpapa was born, these prejudices ran a lot deeper, since goblins were a low-caste group, due to being, shall we say, “overrepresented”, in certain rather unpleasant criminal statistics, as well as because of their appearance, which was seen as less evolved than that of elves and humans. So, old Grandpa Caleron had it rough growing up. Half-breeds like him were disavowed and ostracized by their elven community, while never managing to belong amongst the goblin slums either.”
“That’s why he looks so old? Because of his goblin blood?” asked Dolor.
“Not quite, goblins are a long-living race too, when compared to humans. However, the combination of elven and goblin blood does not seem to be very smooth, since many side effects arise. One of them is rapid aging, which from your human perspective would be seen as normal aging, as he has lived for almost a hundred years, however, for an elf who is supposed to live for a minimum of two centuries, a natural death before reaching one hundred is something quite unheard of,” Petros kept looking at the portrait as he continued “However, Lance Corporal, my grandfather’s appearance may have distracted you from noticing the real reason I brought you to this painting. Come closer and look.”
Dolor approached the portrait and was hit when he saw a dagger floating perfectly vertically about the noble elf’s extended right hand. It was his dagger, the magicarm that was used to kill his father and sent to him as mockery. This dagger likely caused Dolor to become a wanted fugitive and a personal enemy of the regime. This was the dagger that severed Dolor’s miserable past and thrust him into a new life, one more dangerous and probably shorter, but almost certainly more exciting and fuller of a vague sense of purpose.
“I see, you finally spotted it, Lance Corporal,” Petros continued to look at the portrait. “Indeed, as you can see, my esteemed ancestor Lord Caleron Vask, the former High Spymaster of the Kingdom Lestralla, previously owned your magicarm. But he wasn’t the only one, for this was a Vask family heirloom, passed from generation to generation. However, from what grandpa used to say, we were not the original owners of this artefact; it was much older than even our bloodline, and its origin is unknown. Caleron said that the dagger was found by his great-grandfather in a war raid on some goblin settlement, during one of the Kingdom’s expansion campaigns.”
“But how did it find its way to me? If it’s your family heirloom, shouldn’t that be your magicarm?” asked Dolor, hoping desperately that he could make all this trouble Petros’ problem, since it’s his dagger.
“Not quite. You see, this dagger disappeared when I was a child, and I haven’t ever seen it, other than in paintings. How did it find its way to you? Well, that’s what I would like to know: the dagger was allegedly lost after my grandfather’s death, which was long before the Revolt. I am as befuddled as you are about how it turned up several hundred years later in the hands of Crudele’s executioners, who used it to kill your father and then sent it to you as a warning sign or something. This means that Crudele was unaware of the magicarm’s existence, or he would never allow any henchman or associate to be in possession of such a weapon. The dagger’s previous owner was likely unaware of its power, too. Maybe Crudele ordered your father’s execution and instructed the executioners to send you the weapon of murder as a sign, but he was unaware that this would be the weapon. Curious…,” Petros seemed lost in thought and was at this point talking more to himself than Dolor.
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“So, what’s so special about it? I mean, don’t get me wrong, I saw it do some crazy shit today, but I want to know the specifics,” Dolor was eager to hear what Petros would say. It seemed like his life was changing drastically, and Dolor, for once in a long time, finally felt a desire to carry on and to live this new life.
“You see, Nyxfang, also known colloquially as “The Dagger That Remembers”, is a magicarm of immense potency. As you witnessed yourself, it is capable of incredible speed, power, and precision, which can cut, pierce, and sever any physical object, regardless of its material, and cut through most, but not all, forms of magic. This is unusual, as most attack-type magicarms are forged as either anti-matter magicarms, which focus on attacks against physical objects but cannot pierce through spells, or anti-mana, which specialize in piercing magic shields and barriers and disrupting spells but have no effect on physical objects or enemies. Nyxfang combines the ability to do both, which is a highly rare trait in magicarms, making Nyxfang a special grade magicarm, which can only be trusted to be wielded by the Chairman and must be stored in his armory.”
Petros turned around, now facing Dolor directly. “But this is not even the most interesting part about Nyxfang, Lance Corporal. The Dagger That Remembers is called as such for a good reason. You see, Nyxfang is the only known magicarm that can learn from combat situations and battle experiences and continuously evolve its abilities and behavior in all future combat. And considering we don’t know exactly how old this magicarm is, it is likely that Nyxfang has accumulated thousands of years of combat experience.”
“Wait, did you just say it can 'learn' and 'behave'?” asked Dolor, still in shock from what he was hearing. Magicarms are supposed to be inanimate objects, tools that can be used by those with mana to kill others.
“Precisely, Nyxfang has what one might call ‘a mind of its own’. It is a weapon that can be extremely deadly, yet it cannot be directly controlled by the will of the mage wielding it. It cannot be commanded to do things, like other magicarms, it must be…asked in a certain way.” Petros hesitated before continuing, “It responds to the desires, impulses, and emotional state of its wielder, and thus will often not follow direct instructions or follow them too much. For example, if you were, say, about to be executed, and you did not want to die, the dagger may react in a way that gives the highest probability to your desperate desire to live, by, let’s say, killing two SSB magents to allow you to escape. Even though a skillful mage with a compliant weapon could have used the dagger as a distraction, allowing him to escape without killing the SSB magents and becoming an enemy of the State,” Petros continued, looking directly at Dolor.
“Ok, that’s a little on the nose, don’t you think? I never even knew I was capable of magic until a couple of hours ago. Maybe, cut me some slack for not being a skillful magic user just yet,” Dolor looked genuinely agitated by what he saw as unwarranted criticism.
“My apologies, Lance Corporal, I meant no offense. I meant to say that the fact that somehow you awakened your magic abilities within yourself is already unbelievable enough, but that your level of magical ability was that of a savant is what beggars my belief so utterly and completely. Nyxfang wouldn’t have bonded with you if you were manaless, and it certainly wouldn’t lie idly in your possession if it did not see that potential in you.”
“So, what happens now, Petros? What is this all about?” Dolor was feeling increasingly unnerved, realizing the scale of shit he had gotten himself into.
“For better, but most likely for worse, you are now attached to this magicarm which is also indirectly attached to me and my family. Your face will soon appear everywhere as a highly dangerous and wanted fugitive, with quite a hefty reward slapped on top. Many freelancers, bandits, and SSB magents would be eager to get your bounty, and because of my family’s indirect connection to the dagger and because you already showed up here, I absolutely cannot allow you to get captured, or my entire family will be liquidated on Crudele’s orders.” Petros paused and looked Dolor straight in the eyes, ensuring that he would understand every single word. “Because of that, you now work for me, Lance Corporal. You will, naturally, not be monetarily compensated, because you still owe me money and will be thus working diligently to repay your debt, but I will give you temporary refuge from the law while you complete some tasks for me. And who knows, by the end of your tenure under my employment, we might find out more about why the regime has taken such an interest in you and how they came to own my family heirloom.”
“What can I even do that would be of value to someone like you?” Dolor looked genuinely puzzled.
“You let me worry about that, Lance Corporal. Your job is to follow my orders and not ask me questions. Now, do you accept the terms I mentioned?” Petros was stern and unwavering, suddenly changing his mood from the more laid-back persona he had presented himself as earlier.
“Fine, I accept. Not like I have a choice.” Dolor knew that this was true, and pretending to have any leverage over the elf in this negotiation would be pointless, thus, he had to accept Petros’ terms, not because they were fair, but because they were the only terms available to him.
“That you do not, young Dolor, you don’t have many things, and a choice in this matter is only one of them,” the elf extended his hand to Dolor, which he accepted. “Welcome aboard, Lance Corporal. Let’s hope that our mutual partnership results in success for both of us.”
