Legendary daggers

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a time-ravaged rolaren dagger


This ancient dagger shows the ravages of time. The long, straight blade, nicked and pitted with age, is pointed, indicating this is a weapon designed for stabbing rather than slashing. The handle is made of some sort of bone around which a single, thin strand of rough sisal has been repeatedly and tightly wound, providing a sure grip even for a sweaty hand. The sisal is stained brown with age and dirt. On the blade, just above the small crossbar, is the sigil of Ta'Nalfein. You also notice a small enchanter's mark.



Lore Song

A profound sadness came over as I began to sing. The dagger suddenly seemed heavier in my hand. I saw the blade as it was when it was newly-forged...bright, lethally sharp, pure. The vision expanded slowly and I became aware the blade was being passed from an aged, scarred hand to a muscular young one.

The vision expands, more of the scene appears. The evening sun streams through tall, narrow windows. The sea, green and tempest-tossed, is visible through the window. Two Elves...one elderly, sitting in a comfortable chair, the other in the first blush of adulthood and standing painfully straight...face each other. The elder, his eyes bright despite his advanced years, hands the dagger hilt-first to the younger. Pride and pleasure are apparent in both faces.

With a suddenness that made me dizzy the scene shifts. It is night. Clouds obscure the moon. I see the young Elf climb noiselessly over a stone parapet. He presses himself into the shadows and slowly, quietly draws the blade from a silk-lined sheath. A short break in the cloud cover reveals his face, shifting between fear and determination. A sentry, human, dressed in Turamzzyrian colors, idles by...and dies silently. The young elf glides to an open window. Inside can be seen the form of somebody curled in sleep, wrapped in fine, saffron-colored linen sheets.

Jarring images whirled through my head. Deep red arterial blood on saffon-colored sheets. Shouting. A reckless, bruising scramble down a stone wall on a black horsehair rope. Flights of arrows thrilling through the air, winking in the moonlight. Pain. Gasping. Fear. With determination I managed to hold onto a final image...a marshy grotto. The young Elf, bleeding from a dozen wounds, kneels in the muck and calmly wraps the handle of the dagger in black silk. He closes his eyes, sets the pointed blade to his throat.