Sitting on the floor of your tent, you tend to your new armor, making sure it's prepared for the fighting tomorrow.
"Lad?" a voice asks from the entrance.
You glance up. "Aye? Come on in."
Darin limps into the tent. You move to stand up, but he waves a hand dismissively. "Stay."
He approaches you before reaching to his belt and detaching a small sheath hanging off of the left side. At the top, a handle extends out.
The old warrior throws the sheath to you. Despite being caught off-guard, you reflexively catch it.
"If you're trying to stab me, you're supposed to use the pointy bit."
"Very funny, asshole."
You grip the handle and pull it out of the sheath.
It's a simple straight-edge dagger, with an eight-inch blade of tempered steel. The thin crossguard bears no decoration or inscription. There's no decoration, no engravings or jewels. The weapon is one of rigid practicality. Finely crafted for war.
"I's know it ain't fancy like yer Kroridian gear. But it's all I could afford, so fuck you, this is what yer stuck with."
"This is for me?" you ask, looking up at Darin.
"Yeah. Ya lost yer other ones, so I's thought you needed a new one. And hey, it might save your life one day."
You tuck the dagger into the sheath on your left sleeve. "How much did it cost you? I'll pay you—"
"No. No ya won't." Darin turns around to exit your tent. "One of these days, Marshal, you's gotta learn to just accept generosity."
And then he leaves.
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