Medievia Mudslinger

October 7th, 2001

Points of Interest - Logged by Excrucior

"So, what you in for?"

"Just a quick sharpening, then it's back to it I'm afraid." The sword gave a metallic sigh as it contemplated the future.

"Get a lot of nicks, do you?" asked the dagger.

"Far too many, mate, far too many. I mean, it's all right being a famous blade and all, but it does mean you have to be on show for your public. All them glorious ripostes and parries and everything, takes its toll on your looks you know. It's not as if I've even got any procs on me or anything." Considering the speaker was a sword it managed to portray a deep sense of hurt rather well.

"You're lucky - my owner only likes me for my tweaks. Can you believe that? I'm called 'Devastator' and all he wants me for is my tweak. I mean, that's a name with heritage and foreboding, that is. Sure, I live up to the name, but that's a lot of backs I've had to puncture to do that." The dagger savored the word 'backs' for a moment but then continued. "Risky job as well - I've been looted in at least three CPK forays so far."

"You want to talk to me about names? Try mine - Anarchist - does that make sense? I mean Ventaur, he's the biggest disciplinarian in Shadowclaw and he calls me 'Anarchist'? Think he's taking the proverbial there? Some sort of sick joke if you ask me." The sword sniffed sadly.

"At least he has a sense of humor. Everyone who wields me just looks for someone to kill. Not like I'm big enough to flourish with, either, not like you."

"Well, that's true I guess. I do get quite a good glint off a setting sun, if I do say so myself. Well, when I'm not nicked to extinction, that is. Ruddy players."

"Your owner is red?"

"Nah - it's an expression of contempt. Sort of an euphemism for a freezable term. You know what they're like round here about that, they'll freeze anyone or anything."

"Someone's got to keep Elnissa armed," pointed out the dagger.

"True, true," agreed the sword philosophically. "I'd just rather it wasn't me - it takes ages to get frost etchings out of your pommel. Actually, I heard one of her swords was going offhand with a Dagger of Fire. Don't know what they see in each other."

"Opposites attract I suppose. Hey - what about him over there? He's not damaged. What's he doing here?"

"Dunno. Hey, you, the steel longsword. Aye, you. What're you doing here? You're new, how come you need repair?"

"Just here for sharpening. I'm part of a contract job for the guardsmen in the City of Medievia." The Guard's sword sounded flat, nearly monotone.

"Really? At the heart of the world? Not bad," mused the dagger.

"Hardly. There's so many of us there's only one in twenty get looted. Rest of us just get sacrificed there and then. I mean we try our best, we try to look as if we'll bring decent money at the weapon shop, but it never works. They don't know the value of mass produced weaponry these days." Insofar as it's possible, Anarchist and Devastator exchanged glances and ignored the Guard's sword. Some people just don't have any class.

"So..." began the dagger after a decent pause, "Did you hear about... Hell's teeth - it's the smith! Shhhh." He stopped and everyone went silent as a shadow passed over them. After a brief moment of terror it left.

"You still there Anarchist?" hissed the dagger.

"Yeah, that Guard's sword's gone, but there's something else over there now. Can't make it out from here, can you?"

"Hey, it's a shield! That's something you don't see every day in this pile. Hey, shield, what you doing here?"

"Just need some dents knocking out. I think he dropped me over here by accident, typical. I hate fights and I hate weapons," moaned the shield.

"Well, that's nice, isn't it, eh? We're just trying to be friendly, you know," said the dagger primly.

"Er, well I don't mind backstabbers. It's not as if I see you guys. And swords aren't that bad either, you tend to glance off easily."

"Oh, so it's 'Present company excluded' now?" asked the sword huffily. "How convenient."

"Well, my pet hate is hammers, I really hate hammers. They're the ones that make the huge dents. After a battle's done and some muscle-bound fool has just hammered you into a mass of unrecognisable metal, they bring you here and another muscle-bound oaf beats you with another hammer until you're ready to do the whole thing again. There's no end," it lamented.

"That must be depressing," sympathized the dagger.

"Well, it's not as bad as it is for you lot. At least I don't have to get sharpened - I've seen you lot on the grindstones screaming away before," said the shield.

"Shall we tell him?" the dagger asked the sword.

"What are you on about?" inquired the shield.

"I think we'd better," replied the sword. "It's not that we're screaming in pain," it said to the shield.

"You're not saying you enjoy it?" The weapons were meaningfully quiet for a moment. "You do? You cannot be serious..."

"Oh yes, get some fine grain whetstone round my blade and I'm anybody's," said the dagger dreamily. "I'm always ready for a quick 'short back and sides' if you know what I mean."

"I like the oil they use here," added the sword. "Much nicer than they use elsewhere... really viscous. Gets into all your runnels."

"That's disgusting, you know that?" demanded the shield.

"You would never understand. And speaking of disgusting, you heard the latest about that Herobattle short sword?"

"Randy, you mean?" asked the shield, his interest piqued.

"He sure is. The lad's got a reputation to live up to." The dagger managed to insinuate a wink into his voice.

"I haven't heard, tell all," said the shield.


Here the logs corrupt and become indistinct...


Copyright (c) 1992-2018, Inc. All Rights Reserved
Mudslinger is a trademark (Tm) of, Inc.
No portion of the MudSlinger may be reproduced without the express written consent of, Inc.