@ivory-rabbit stop admiring the damn dagger and help her l from here [🔪🔪🔪]
He took his hands away from the wound immediately, only the faintest hint of exasperation flickering through his usually serene, concerned expression. He knew better than to ask too many questions in situations like this, but they’d been attempting to fix this for a while and with all the information he lacked, it was hard to say whether they were running out of time or not before serious damage would be done. “All right, all right, but we have to take that knife out eventually if we want to fix it.”
Since he was going to wait a moment until she told him she was prepared, the Guardian instead took the opportunity to examine it visually, tilting his head to look at the wound from another angle. The dagger that pierced her hand, right through to her gloved palm, was a wicked looking thing - a curved blade with an ornate handle, with dark jewels inlaid in the design. He looked at these pointedly, and at the runes that glowed like dying embers along the handle’s surface, before turning his attention back to his friend.
“This wouldn’t happen to be a cursed item, would it?”
"Yeah, sure, keep admiring this blade, I’ll stand here, I have the whole time of the world, it’s so nice to stand with the dagger in my fucking hand, and God, can’t you come up with a plan how to help me?!"
Ivakir, who was in pain, was nasty. Ivakir, who was in terrible pain, was very nasty, because of which she could sometimes say things that she later regretted. Getting down here was not a mistake, and she absolutely did not regret that she had come down here. Surly caves, full of antiquities and secrecy - such places always attracted the witch, just like cheese attracts mice. Which was usually in a mousetrap.
After wandering through dark and dusty corrirods, they managed to find a hall with a bunch of corpses and skeletons of different stages of decomposition with a dagger in the center of the room. "Stood" was the right word to describe the position of the dagger, because from the side it seemed as if it was hanging in the air, "standing" on its blade. The light falling from a high ceiling made the room look like a stage.
Ivakir remembered her grandmother's instructions: “If you see a cursed object, never touch it with your bare hands. Who knows what people touched it and what they did before with their hands”. The one could see a rag next to the dagger. Obviously, Ivakir's method didn't work.
Having the dagger pierce your hand was painful, and there was no point in describing this pain. It was enough to look at the witch's face, which was covered with sweat. Ivakir should be paid tribute: she heroically held on. In addition to sweat, tears streamed down her face. Iv was crying. Now was not the moment to be ashamed of this.
"Alright, that’s what we will do," Ivakir inhaled and exhaled. There was no hope for Twig anymore, given that he was more interested in the dagger than helping her. "There is a flask in my pocket, and bandages and pills in my backpack. Give me them."
