A tale of larceny, honour and justice.
I stifled a yawn and folded my arms as I gazed warily at the
crowd that swarmed around my swords. My collection had grown after the 16 years
I had been with the Group, training in the art of swordsmanship. Of my many
swords, the longswords I had forged were my greatest, and I looked with pride
as a group of teenagers were admiring my strongest one. They passed it to each
other, wielding the blade and testing its weight. As it was passed to one of them,
he glanced around like a fox in a spotlight, and turned around in a sprint. I
blinked, my mind going blank for a split second.
“Hey!” I yelled, as his friends took off. What the hell?
Some punk kids were trying to steal my sword!
Dale and Richard were my partners for the show, but they had
only turned around when they heard my yell. By then, the teen was halfway to
the door, and I growled as I took chase. This kid was no athlete. He was just
some testosterone-pumped ass wipe that didn’t know what was good for him. He
was practically laughing as he pushed past people to get to the exit. I
narrowed my eyes as I reached down to my boot and drew my dagger.
Now there are several things about my dagger you have to
watch out for. Firstly, it’s the second heaviest dagger that’s actually used
for dueling in the entire Western
Australia. Across the crossguard, it has my name
carved in ancient Celtic – Goroth the Black. Goroth, of course, meaning a pit
of despair; a barren wasteland, Death’s back yard. What was also cool about the
hilt was that it curved to make a very narrow angle with the blade. I’ve
disarmed every single person in the Group by parrying their sword. My dagger
was also the second of its kind that was ever made- I practically got it off
the production line. It was customised, however, with a special feature. At the
base of the hilt, there was an image of a reverse dog- the emblem on my right
breast, that burned crimson against the black. If I were to hit something with
my knife, it would leave a mark- much like the Phantom’s ring.
The dagger slid out of my boot in mid-stride, and I drew it
back to my right shoulder, preparing to throw. It was at that moment, one of
the kid’s friends put a hand on his shoulder and stopped him.
“I wouldn’t,” said the kid, eying my knife. It took a moment
for him to stop struggling and actually realise the threat before he would
relinquish my sword. I took it off him with a death glare, and muttered,
“You’re lucky you stopped.” That was no empty threat,
either. I can pierce an apple with my dagger. It’s perfectly weighted for me- I
am its master, and it hits its target without fail. I sheathed it in my boot
once more and set the longsword against my shoulder. He sure as hell wouldn’t
be stupid enough to steal something else when I was carrying one of those.