Like all longswords, the Flame of Aberresai boasts a considerable handle, a simple slab of a crossbar, and a long, long blade.

Unlike all longswords – or, indeed, like few others – the Flame of Aberresai boasts a razor-sharp edge and a blade slathered in runes. These are painted so closely together that it is impossible to tell the color of the metal underneath. The streaks of dark brown leave no doubt about what was used to bind magic to the sword. Unfortunately, the runes cross each other so often that they have become utterly illegible even if a modern rune mage were to get their hands on the Flame.

Besides its red blade, there is little to remark upon. The pommel held a jewel, once; the stone has long since been gouged from the sword, leaving nothing but an empty hole behind.

The Flame of Aberresai is aptly named.

That is, it bursts into flames when wielded in battle. Or, more precisely, it bursts into flames when wielded in battle against monsters that obscure their true nature. Shapeshifters, werewolves, corporeal spirits, and anything else that the runes take into consideration in their sacred tongue. This fire burns brightly enough to light up a spacious cavern – or blind a man in broad daylight – but it doesn’t burn red.

It burns white.

In the light of the Flame, all creatures that seek to hide their real shape are revealed to the wielder, and to the wielder alone.

But no magic is without price. And the sort of magic that cuts through lies and smites deceit – it exacts a terrible toll. The wielder becomes more and more like the beasts they hunt. With every monster felled, the holder of the Flame is doomed to wander ever further from their sense of self. They go mad with grief, or fury, or madness itself – if they aren’t killed by their own friends, these warriors all eventually turn the sword on themselves.

Or perhaps it is the sword that turns on them.

It is said that in times before the savannah was the savannah, before even it was called Aberresai – the High Trees – there was a city in the depths of that forest. And just like in times more recent, in that Age long past, man warred with man and monster alike; and many monsters roamed those woods, their shape betraying them for men when they were anything but.

And from that Age on survives the Flame, a blade steeped equally in runes as in the blood of its enemies. It has served warriors and mercenaries alike as an instrument of death and justice. The Flame passes no judgment on its victims; only on its wielder.

The annals of history have forgotten all who have ever held the blade. Righteous or wicked, Human or Dwarf, man or woman – no-one knows who they were. Scholars would remark on this peculiarity first with skepticism, but as the centuries wore on and the lack of evidence mounted, no measure of askance could make the parchment leak their names.

Between the nature of the blade itself and the curious absence of records, the sword has been reduced to an obscure tale by modern times. Last sightings – naught but oral tradition, and embellished at that – can be traced to the previous Age. Since then no-one has seen neither handle nor crossbar of the Flame.

TBA

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