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. YOU NEED BLOOD TO DO WHAT
YOU NOW MUST; I NEED ALL BLOOD BECAUSE I
CHOOSE IT. FIND YOUR OWNER, YOUR USER, YOUR
FOOD;
DRINK DEEP AND DO MY BIDDING. GO. NOW. The
voice ceased.
The dagger strained to hear more. After a moment,
slowly and painfully, it curled its talons on the cross-piece,
grasping the flabby folds of the goblin's skin. Gradually it
worked itself free and pulled itself out from under the body.
Once in the open air, it crawled rapidly along the path,
moving and looking as though it were an injured lizard.
Ahead it heard the high, childlike voice of the user - the
dagger's next kill by right of use. The ruby eyes dimly made
out curly brown hair, a fleece vest, and some sort of stick
that the short creature was walking with, then spinning to
make noise. The high voice was giggling. "Besides," he
said, "That dagger was Flint's!"
The dagger swiveled its short stiff body, the hilt with
wings, to peer at the squat figure who grunted in annoyance
next. He had muscular arms and an age-lined silhouette,
and he carried an axe bound to his belt.
"Flint," the dagger thought. "The dwarf who owned me.
Owner and user. Both my food."
But the two, and a third one, their tall, bearded
companion, turned and climbed the steps that wound up the
trunk of a massive vallenwood tree
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