61, Fall 519 AV
Sleep lifted slowly. A headache worse than Baelin could ever remember pounded away at his temples, fighting his attempts to rise out of slumber. Baelin groaned and buried himself under his sheets. And―when that still hadn't fixed the problem―he twisted around and pressed his forehead up against the cool surface of the wall. Gods, it was like someone had tightened a wire in his head―so tight that his skull might snap. Petch, what the hell had he done?
Baelin rarely ever drank. And―even when he did―he typically didn’t have much. An ale or two at most; the moment he started to feel the hint of a buzz, he tended to stop. It just wasn’t his vice. Waking up with a raging headache and unable to remember how he got it was far from his norm. So what had he―What was that!?
Sitting innocuously on his table was a long, lethal looking knife. It was right where he normally left his eating knife, but this was definitely no utensil. Not that much shorter than his forearm, and with a curved, clip point, this knife looked like it could kill as an afterthought.
Where. Did that. Come from!?
A giant pot. The foggy image hit him, too hazy to really focus on. Dirt and bone. Something...a gel? His eating knife? That couldn’t be real, the memory was more like a dream than anything else. But the shear ephemeral nature of it didn't change the fact that there was a very real looking knife on his table.
His headache suddenly seemed incredibly insignificant. Baelin threw off his sheets and climbed out of bed. Stepping carefully―almost as if approaching something wild―Baelin went to go get a good look at the mystery knife.
The craftsmanship was undeniable. And unlike the normal wooden handles found outside of Black Rock, the knife’s handle was made of well-fashioned bone. Baelin traced his finger up its polished surface, thick callouses against smooth bone.
Beautiful. Just… completely and unequivocally beautiful.
Carefully, moving with a slowness that probably wasn't warranted, Baelin wrapped his fingers around the handle. As soon as it was in his grasp, a thought pierced through the haze of his headache: This can hurt ghosts.
Baelin blinked, fingers still clasped around the bone handle, frozen in his surprise. He had no idea how he knew that it could be used against ghosts, but… He just somehow knew―beyond a shadow of a doubt―that it could.
He dropped the knife and took a few large steps back. What the petch? How could this be real... Was he still dreaming? But nothing about this moment felt like a dream. And surely―if it was a dream―he wouldn't have this skull-splitting headache to deal with. No...no, this had to be real. Somehow, someway, this lethal knife had been born from his old eating knife. Forged by his uncle, given to him by his aunt, and now transformed in a haze of magic.
But that was impossible. His old eating knife was so worn down and over-sharpened that it barely had any meat left to it. Even if it was used to create this new blade, it could have only provided a small fraction of the steel that must have been needed to make this longer, thicker beast of a knife. That just… It wasn’t possible.
This was some kind of trick. Baelin circled the table, peering at the knife every which way. Anything brought to him by magical means surely must have some ulterior purpose to it. A purpose that was probably going to come back and bite him in the ass later. Magic was for the gods; it wasn't something mortals like Baelin ought to dabble with.
But then... He'd been given a gift of magic before, hadn't he? The ever present weight on his shoulders: the duty to find those who sought to escape the cycle, and force them back on track. Dira had marked him, and that gift was undoubtedly a boon of magic. Was this too a gift? Had it come from Dira?
Baelin couldn't know. He doubted he was meant to.
All he knew was that this knife could hurt ghosts.
And there were a lot of ghosts in Sunberth.
Feeling an almost boyish excitement, Baelin got the sudden urge to run out then and there with his new knife. To go find some ghosts and stab them, just to see what it could do. Reason argued against it, but he’d never had anything like this before.
Maybe a little bit of experimentation. How could he not?
Sleep lifted slowly. A headache worse than Baelin could ever remember pounded away at his temples, fighting his attempts to rise out of slumber. Baelin groaned and buried himself under his sheets. And―when that still hadn't fixed the problem―he twisted around and pressed his forehead up against the cool surface of the wall. Gods, it was like someone had tightened a wire in his head―so tight that his skull might snap. Petch, what the hell had he done?
Baelin rarely ever drank. And―even when he did―he typically didn’t have much. An ale or two at most; the moment he started to feel the hint of a buzz, he tended to stop. It just wasn’t his vice. Waking up with a raging headache and unable to remember how he got it was far from his norm. So what had he―What was that!?
Sitting innocuously on his table was a long, lethal looking knife. It was right where he normally left his eating knife, but this was definitely no utensil. Not that much shorter than his forearm, and with a curved, clip point, this knife looked like it could kill as an afterthought.
Where. Did that. Come from!?
A giant pot. The foggy image hit him, too hazy to really focus on. Dirt and bone. Something...a gel? His eating knife? That couldn’t be real, the memory was more like a dream than anything else. But the shear ephemeral nature of it didn't change the fact that there was a very real looking knife on his table.
His headache suddenly seemed incredibly insignificant. Baelin threw off his sheets and climbed out of bed. Stepping carefully―almost as if approaching something wild―Baelin went to go get a good look at the mystery knife.
The craftsmanship was undeniable. And unlike the normal wooden handles found outside of Black Rock, the knife’s handle was made of well-fashioned bone. Baelin traced his finger up its polished surface, thick callouses against smooth bone.
Beautiful. Just… completely and unequivocally beautiful.
Carefully, moving with a slowness that probably wasn't warranted, Baelin wrapped his fingers around the handle. As soon as it was in his grasp, a thought pierced through the haze of his headache: This can hurt ghosts.
Baelin blinked, fingers still clasped around the bone handle, frozen in his surprise. He had no idea how he knew that it could be used against ghosts, but… He just somehow knew―beyond a shadow of a doubt―that it could.
He dropped the knife and took a few large steps back. What the petch? How could this be real... Was he still dreaming? But nothing about this moment felt like a dream. And surely―if it was a dream―he wouldn't have this skull-splitting headache to deal with. No...no, this had to be real. Somehow, someway, this lethal knife had been born from his old eating knife. Forged by his uncle, given to him by his aunt, and now transformed in a haze of magic.
But that was impossible. His old eating knife was so worn down and over-sharpened that it barely had any meat left to it. Even if it was used to create this new blade, it could have only provided a small fraction of the steel that must have been needed to make this longer, thicker beast of a knife. That just… It wasn’t possible.
This was some kind of trick. Baelin circled the table, peering at the knife every which way. Anything brought to him by magical means surely must have some ulterior purpose to it. A purpose that was probably going to come back and bite him in the ass later. Magic was for the gods; it wasn't something mortals like Baelin ought to dabble with.
But then... He'd been given a gift of magic before, hadn't he? The ever present weight on his shoulders: the duty to find those who sought to escape the cycle, and force them back on track. Dira had marked him, and that gift was undoubtedly a boon of magic. Was this too a gift? Had it come from Dira?
Baelin couldn't know. He doubted he was meant to.
All he knew was that this knife could hurt ghosts.
And there were a lot of ghosts in Sunberth.
Feeling an almost boyish excitement, Baelin got the sudden urge to run out then and there with his new knife. To go find some ghosts and stab them, just to see what it could do. Reason argued against it, but he’d never had anything like this before.
Maybe a little bit of experimentation. How could he not?
Halloween Challenge :
WC: 759
