Recent content by Thronesplitter

"Belief without faith?" The sword murmured; a private echo of Esmoria's words that only Tar -- Feyrith could hear. It tasted this name and whatever abstract ideas might latch onto it. "Perhaps not an entirely insensible naming, I shall grant her that. Faith is for the weak who submit their fates...

"Tell me," the sword's voice issued upon contact. "Are you still the same wielder who drew me from the nameless lake of Falwood? The one who spirited me across the world by land and sea, to come before this temple? Or are you merely an imposter, come to take his place?" Feyrith

Completely unknown magic to it seared and tore the flesh off its drow companion, before reknitting them with the patience of a needling weaver, stitching and re-sowing, while Tar writhed in agony, surrounded by strange, bright red lights. It brought to mind a larva struggling against its own...

"I do not trust this assembly of fleshmongers and soul merchants. I will precede over this arrangement. If nothing else, to be close at hand should you need me." What the blade didn't dare admit was that it wished for Tar to be close at hand, too, should anyone in this temple of mercantilism...

Budding fury flared again within the steel. Runes sizzled and hissed like cooking meat below Esmoria's hands, and its voice still spoke to her mind, now with a hissing quality. "You seek to barter with me? Pawn and buy me like some cheap payment for services rendered?" Crackles of sparks shot...

The blade mulled on her cryptic words. A sacrifice to match one's desires. What could one possibly sacrifice that would weigh such scales of the soul equally? "Our perhaps you ask on your behalf? Would you like to be made flesh rather than pretty steel?" In response to her words, it spoke in...

The sword ignited upon the warmth of her psyche, like coal and lamp-oil added to an already existing fire. "Tell me. Is this Lady truly able to spawn flesh anew? To transport a soul into a new vessel?" A dangerous green flare flittered up the blade, igniting each rune in turn, like a spirit...

To become someone new . . . was that truly possible? Could one shed the form they had in favour of altered flesh from a mere bargain, just like that? The tiefling spoke of rebirth, of gaining new memories and faces as easily as one might change cloaks or dresses. It left the blade wondering...

Demon blood. A curious vintage it had never had the chance to taste before. It did not know whether demonic influence thinned by generations of mortal child-rearing would render such a taste poorer or richer. Perhaps it would get to find out. The tiefling danced in circles around its wielder...

Such a pristine temple. Beautiful stained glass, tasteful columns and neat furniture. It would be an awful shame if it were all lit aflame. The sword could sense power here. It could smell it, as close to an imitation of that sense that mortals carried as it could ever mimic. The humble...

The verdure of greenery in this stone temple seemed more lush than anywhere else in this 'Malakath.' A pleasing aesthetic of ritualistically cut stone and hemmed-in willows, beds of red- and white roses, along with a scattering of purple ones, bespoke of the care and attendance to these grounds...

This gave the blade pause. It had never been to that deep place of the earth before . . . had it? The sword retained its silence for some time, listening with intent. Drinking in his anguished tones, his long pauses of hesitation. It had seen him fight and flight with deadly efficiency and...

As Tar went about the practicals of disembarking and merging with the populace of this port-town, Thronesplitter privately nursed a dark feeling, like grey clouds overtaking the clear blue sky of its previous joy. A creeping apprehension for the future, now that the immediate danger of dropping...

"Malakath . . ." It tasted the name. A name which seemed vaguely familiar to it . . . harsh, as no doubt its lands were as well. The drow's brief tension was cause for some amusement. Indeed, it had witnessed many a muttered soliloquy, as well as paid audience to the tracking and tracing of...

This was not Alliria. The sword had gathered as much by now, even if it remained ignorant of the layout of Arethil's capitals in this age. It had watched the drow for some time now. Kept its invisible tongue in check. And so far, it hadn't been left by the wayside. An improvement, to be sure...