The Wench's Prize

” It’s mine! The doll was mine to begin with. ” Morgan screached, clutching an old doll tightly to her. Jessie picked up her skirts and sprinted after her little sister.

A sea crusted old man sat at the bar and vaguely wondered why the bar wench was argueing over an old tattered doll with a child instead of serving him more mead. It was a nasty looking old thing with one eye hanging by a thread and more patches than he could count.

Jessie managed to wrestle the doll from Morgan. She wrapped her hand around the neck of the doll and pulled. Out from the abused doll’s stomach came a dagger. Jessie got a better grip of the handle through the doll’s head.

” The doll was mine before it was yours, and the dagger will always be mine.”

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