Just a Dagger

I am just a tool, a dagger. The hand wielding the weapon decides what to do with it and when it’s not needed anymore, it gets put aside. It might be picked up again one day. Or maybe never. One cannot really know, but they need to have trust.
That trust might have wavered a couple of times, but in the end he was saved by the Masked Lord. He was alive solely because He decided to lead him out of Darkness, embracing him with His shadows, bringing him towards the greater goal in the Land Above. He could have died along his comrades during the uprising, or perhaps even worse: he could have ended like his sister did, who had encountered a fate worse than death. Cold shivers ran down his spine, when he thought about it. It was bittersweet mix of anger, fear, and desperate longing. If there was anything he could do to free her from those heavy shackles of the Spider Queen, he would do it without hesitation. He missed her so much. The longing circled inside his ribcage like a lone wolf looking for its lost partner, but when it could not find even a trace of her, it began to gnaw his sides out of frustration, sinking its needle-sharp teeth into the tender flesh. The sensation made him uneasy, as he knew his sister was only one spell away. Which spell he should use, of course, was debatable; there was no use to speak with a drone of the Spider Queen, which only spoke with the voice of his sister, but there was nothing left of the woman he had loved unconditionally for his whole miserable life.

Rhylaonar wrapped his arms around the closest object and hugged it tight. Sennei, the skeletal wolf which had carvings on its skull, stared at its master a mildly confused look on its undead canine face, but didn’t resist, even if its bare jaws clicked a little together, producing a faint clinging sound not unlike that of a wind chime. Of course an undead wolf is a poor substitute for a living person, mainly because it’s not living and neither it’s a person, but also because of the faint smell of decay that seemed to stuck on clothes, which needed to be rinsed with vinegar afterwards. Surprisingly, the husband who had been in charge of the matron’s wardrobe, didn’t pay any mind to the clothes of his own. Not this time. He just needed something to embrace, even when he knew it would not help.

Embarassed blush crept on his grey cheeks, even if he was alone in this room – if you didn’t count the undead wolves. It was a show of weakness and something his sister had made very clear -often and with violence. Emotions were just a hindrance, blocking the path to success. Someone seeing such a disgusting act would most likely just use them against you, so to defend oneself from cunning and deceiving people, one needed to hide the feelings, bury them deep beneath the surface. Unfortunately he had always been such a lousy liar, when the emotions ran hot and they were hard to handle. He knew he had ’the look’, as his sister had called it. Even if he would otherwise be convinving, the drow man knew his eyes told the truth. Thus, he had learned to avert his gaze and close his eyes, being forced to encounter many terrifying things without being able to see beforehand what would come.

”This is not my fight.”
”But it’s ours.”
”Yours.”


The boy was adamantly stupid. How gracious of him, the favored child, to offer him some breadcrumbs from his plate. He didn’t need any charity. Rhylaonar knew better than anyone that he was not fit for the task of the high priest. He didn’t understand people and neither did people understand him. The boy had been born on the island, he was essentially an islander. People would warm up to him much better, and then it would be easier to gather followers and spread the faith. It was just simple social mathematics; that’s how people worked everywhere. Rhylaonar had understood it immediately and somewhat accepted his part, if disgruntedly. He was, after all, just a tool in disposal of his God. He had no say in it, and he knew from his own experience that as easily as He had lead him from the slaughter and saved his life, He could just as effortlessly take it away. Rhylaonar knew that and he couldn’t deny that he had been pondering for such a long, long time why He had chosen him. And then, when he encountered this situation here – The Shadowblade family, which swore allegiances to both Eilistraee and Vhaeraun- he had slowly understood.

Silly of him. The realization had tasted bittersweet. He had never beem special to begin with. It was just as he had been told since he could remember. You are not unique. You will become nothing, you won’t achieve anything. You are just a waste of space, a breathing mass quivering with fear beneath the Spider Queen’s terrifying presence and the heels of women. You are nothing and will never become anything. Your life will be short and useless, and even in death you will never find peace, as you will end up to the grasp of Lolth. She will do to you whatever she wants to, most likely torture your soul forever only because it might entertain her whims for a short while.

At least with Vhaeraun he knew he would be something, albeit little, but at least something a bit more than just a sacrifice. He would not be the one to make a difference, no, but he would be the one aiding the ones who would do. He would be supporting, his insubstantial life a little less meaningless. And when he would die, his soul would not end up in the grasps of the Spider Queen. In death he would finally be free. That had been the very thought that made him withstand all the punishments, all the whippings, cuts, bruises, and fractured bones. At least in death he would be freed from these shackles, for perhaps a short while, but at least for a while. The Masked Lord had offered him an alternative he had gladly taken, rejoiced even when he had been finally picked from the sea of devouted.


Still, even after all that had happened, it was a decision he didn’t regret and he stood by it, even if the realization tasted bittersweet. This was the second time, as for a moment he had thought there must have been some other reason for his salvation than the probable fact that he had been the easiest to pull away unscathed, and finally he had realized that there were no other reasons than the fact that it just had been the least burdensome option for his God. He was a weapon of his God, as he had promised to be in the initiation, and as weapons didn’t have any opinions of their own, he could only do as his God wished him to. It was annoyingly bitter pill to swallow and Rhylaonar knew he was being childish. Why mourn over something you didn’t even get in the first place. You were never promised more than you asked for. You know the boy is much better for the assigned task than you are. You are here solely for the reason to help him, to get things rolling for him, and then you will be disposed, placed aside, until you are needed again.


You were never promised anything. It would be hubris to expect your God for special gifts; after all, he already saved you, a useless little dagger, because you happened to be in the right place at the right time. You were the easiest to salvage and it had nothing to do with your skillfullness or your uniqueness. You are nothing more than a tool, as always. You were made to strike down the opposition, to take the blame for the others. And now, you are also doing that. If the Eilistreeans or the dragonborns decide to get rid of the ’cult’, your head will be on the line. But it’s alright, that’s how it had always been, isn’t it? You will be the sacrifice, the scapegoat, and with that you will be the one to savet he church on the island. Professor Shadowblade would be happy that his son wouldn’t need to take the blame and be labeled as a heretic or traitor. And if the lolthian assassins would come and end his life, that would also save the kid. The prodigy’s life would not be threatened. The Masked Lord still had everything he needed for the victory.

You are accustomed to this, aren’t you? So why does it taste so bitter that it stirs your insides like some kind of burning poison? Why? It is not and never was your decision. Why are you acting like a child about it, throwing tantrums?


Those questions Rhylaonar asked from himself while he stared at the wooden floor. He had let Sennei escape his hold and the skeletal wolf was rolling around on the floor, probably to get rid off the odd feelings in its bones after the hug. The bones rattled as shook itself with determination.

”Yours.”
”No, not mine.”

It was obvious, wasn’t it? The younger one was actually smarter in these things, the drow man pondered. He didn’t want to leave, but would probably need to do so at some point. And then, if you distanced yourself from everyone, the leaving would be easier. He wasn’t sure how long his God would need him here, so when the future was still unclear, it was much wiser to not to get entangled. The less they knew the better, although he had noticed himself being more lax about it, at times almost desperately making remarks about his past life. It was gone, forgotten, and perhaps these were his attempts to cut the last strands still tying him to his life in the Underdark. Now that his sister was not in Ellaniath waiting for him, nor was she back home safe and sound, the future felt just as depressing as the past. It was easier to just be a weapon. Weapons didn’t need to think abou the next time they would be used. They just were, or were not, set aside, motionless, meaningless until needed again. Emotionless. It was easier. People don’t get attached to weapons. They are left on the battlefields, buried in mud or pawned in a shop for a handfull of coins. Some might be nailed to a backing frame and set on a mantelpiece.

His amethyst eyes glanced at the greatsword he had taken with him when he had fled the Underdark. An old, useless piece of metal abandoned as a decoration in the dining hall. It might have had a great history, but now it was already forgotten. Everyone who knew anything else than its name -which had been carved on the placate on the board and it had read ’Nath’riss’- had been dead for centuries. Nath’riss, Doomblade. The sudden realization made him chuckle dryly and he carefully took out the dagger from its sheat. Well, let’s hope that Doomblade and Doomfang would not fail him and their names would not be an ominous omen for this mission.