At one time, the dagger was wrapped in runecloth lace, crocheted by ancient sisters. The memory of its noble edge was long forgotten. Zep sensed the pulse, something poetic, not the pub-brawl poker it had become. Direbrew’s blood polished the blade once or twice. It was a blade meant for prison fights, not a dalliance or dance between ladies and gentlemen. This blade was a street fighter’s blade. No fairness. Kidney punches and in the back, fistfuls of hair, and jugular veins released. She felt the edges of her shoulder blades where wings grow, while wrapping the blade in embersilk.
Señor: Zeptepi looted the Coren Direbrew’s Bloodied Shanker today. Bet Chap could take him out. She’s going to keep in her bags for awhile, just in case someone messes with her.