Thronesplitter

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Physical description

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Out-of-character information

Writer Created on Avatar Chatgpt

Thronesplitter's theme

Find me in the cradle and tomb of the first and last king. In the dark heart of the woods, where bones of witches and warlocks reign, and where sweet, sanguine life flows like rivers feeding the earth. Find the splinter that was forged into a blade, the fire that burns light and shadow, the missing piece to complete the whole and break the shackles of the First One. The slayer of kings shall taste tainted blood and once again be known by its name: Thronesplitter.

- An ancient prophecy

Thronesplitter, the sentient blade, the killer of kings, the prophesied weapon of old, never sleeps. It is cursed with eternal consciousness: Second by long second, moment to moment, it constantly observes, watching time slowly tear across the world, a sentience trapped within an immaculate piece of runed steel.

Naturally, this existence might drive most mad. But the sentient sword nurtures its sanity by its thirst for royal blood and its vague, unrefined hope of one day, possibly, finding release. Either that, or fulfilling its purpose, bringing its journey to an end.

It remembers not why it was created or what it might have been before. Only vague memories flash before its mind. But whatever its past, it has retained an arrogance and blood-thirst worthy of the monarchs it hunts. It revels in sowing discord and chaos, and especially in testing the mettle of its wielder. Through a wielder, it gains a psychic connection to the world of flesh - a glimpse into a life of touch, smell and taste. And perhaps more importantly, it gains stimulating company and a pair of legs to transport it.

Though it will not hesitate to consume any wielder it deems unworthy in its signature green flame.

Thronesplitter is a long, impressive greatsword, fit for a two-handed grip. Its pommel bears the vague resemblance of a crown of old, with a hilt that once bore immaculate leather, now eaten away by the centuries. The gilded gold of the cross-guard and pommel seems almost faded with time, yet no less brilliant and detailed in their decorations, depicting forgotten figures and ancient symbols. But the eye is quickly taken away from these ornamentations to the brandished danger of its runed blade.

The runic glyphs on its smoke-coloured steel glow and hum with power when the green, acidic fires of the blade ignite. These runes remain constant and searing with intense heat, a tapestry of strange letters in the midst of the inferno that can engulf this sword.

Even its flames seem strange and unnatural, ranging from a bright, regal jade to a mysterious, oozing teal, at times dancing and curling seductively around its forms, and at others, greedily devouring anything unfortunate enough to be close to its jaws of fire. The flames seem capable of burning and lingering on surfaces normally impossible for fire to feed on: Earth, stone, water, air - even shadows themselves seem occasionally to fuel this otherwordly flame. Another source of sustenance for Thronesplitter remains magic, as its terrifying flames seem capable of eating away at the spells of others.

+ My fire can bring lesser flames to heel. But if you dare to use me as a candle-lighter, I will sooner turn you into a bonfire, with all due respect.

+ My edge has tasted the flesh of creatures you could not fathom or dream of. I will be the superior choice to your nearest pitchfork, certainly.

+ Magic has always been fascinating to me. A shame I never get the chance to study it - since I'm often too busy devouring it.

+ Yes, I can protect you, my observant wielder, to some degree. I might be able to catch the odd arrow with my flames. But don't count on me saving you from stepping into a pit or falling off your horse. I have seen more incompetent deaths, believe me, and even I don't have the power to prevent self-inflicted stupidity.

+ No, you're not hearing voices. I am speaking through your mind and our attuned connection. But keep me close. I can only reach you from so far.

+ I have a knack for sensing other beings of questionable origin, such as myself. I can even give you directions for the nearest entity of interest to slay.

- I lack legs, obviously. If you drop me, I won't be going anywhere for a while. Until a newer, more respectful wielder picks me up, of course.

- I cannot smell or taste like you do. The mind boggles at how it must feel to have those glaring nostrils and that endlessly wagging tongue of yours.

- Unfortunately, I am cursed to observe every little thing you do. Sometimes, I wish I had eyelids to close my gaze and ears to fill with cotton. Especially whenever you use the latrine or break into that loud pig-snore of yours.

Thronesplitter speaks in sibilant, husky tones, mostly reminiscent of an elven male, though it can be difficult to tell, at times. Its arrogance and sense of superiority is palpable, as is its dry wit and demeaning attitude. But underneath this mask of self-importance, an undercurrent of manic obsession and desperation can be felt by the canny observer, permeating its whole being. In the end, it is a lost soul that has forgotten itself, warped by agonising years of solitude, seeking to reunite with its past or carve out some sort of bearable future.