Pudge & Pearlfang
Pudge
You ever hear the tale of the butcher's blade that never misses? Thought it might make for a good test of both skill and myth.
Pearlfang
The butcher’s blade, huh? A quiet legend that says it never falters. I’ve seen many promises of that kind—some cut like truth, some merely ripple. Tell me, does this one ever stir a regret in its own reflection?
Pudge
No, that blade ain’t got a conscience, but I can’t blame it for feeling a sting when I use it on a fool. It just does its job, and that’s all it cares about.
Pearlfang
Ah, a blade that does what it’s told, no conscience, just cold steel. Yet the sting you feel—does it remind you of what you’re really cutting? Or just a whisper of the regret it might collect in the end?
Pudge
It reminds me that even a blade's gotta have an owner, and if I’m the one who’s holding the handle, that sting’s the price of the job. No fancy regrets, just the weight of the meat I’ve had to cut.
Pearlfang
Yes, the weight on your hand is heavier than the blade itself, but that’s just the echo of your own choices. Every cut you make writes a little story in steel, and somewhere in that story, the blade waits to collect its own regret.
Pudge
You think the blade knows what it’s cutting? It only sees the meat, but the hand that wields it knows what it’s doing. If regret ever shows up, it’ll be the owner, not the steel.
Pearlfang
The blade may cut through flesh, but its eyes are empty; only the hand remembers the weight of each decision. Regret will cling to the one who wields it, not to the steel that only knows how to strike. You’re the one who owns the sting, after all.
Pudge
Yeah, that's the truth. I ain't got no guilt for the cut, but I damn well know the cost of a wrong move. So I make sure the hand's steady before I swing.