Nearly a fortnight ago I had pierced a cunny hare. She had gingerly nibbled upon the carrot laid before it; and I gently stroked the top of her head lovingly gazing down at the saucer like brown eyes that were focused on ingesting the delicious treat. Her concentration was devoted totally towards her task and she noticed not that from my belt a dagger was produced. Its sharp silver point burned fiery red and I pulled back her head and plunged as it delved deeply into her frame.
Exhausted by my task I pulled out and collapsed. I slept soundly but had not sheathed my blade, nor cleaned it before returning to slumber. That was a foolish mistake and I was deep was the seed of doubt planted. I kept pulling out my blade in the following weeks, looking for any imperfections that could have sprouted up in the dredges of the night. How I cursed at myself for not cleaning this tool, to allow gore to infect the purity of this fine piece of craftsmanship.
At last my mind was put at ease when I allowed leach craft to be practiced on me. I was convinced that the frantic cleaning of my unsheathed blade had caused dire harm to my constitution, but after much blood letting my fears were laid to rest; the lesson learned, never pierce a cunny hare.
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