The dream was the same...
Three sparks of azure blue hovered before a trio of giant stone statues, alight with a fire like the Sun. Their voices boomed, an absolute and undeniable power resonating from every tone, every word.
"By Decree of the Shadow, henceforth shall these three be granted the powers of their progenitors, those whom have carved legends unto History.
One among them hovered forth, and a greatsword stabbed into the stone before it. The wisp would behold the silvery metal, worked and tempered by hands old as time's beginning. The runes, carved by hands maddened yet enlightened. Writ in language unknown to mortal tongues.
Once more did the voices echo as one, as they declared the name of this instrument of world-wide fire. Through it, one would become the juggernaut of all pain.
A Titan of conquest.
A Paragon of WAR.
"Vorpalslayer. The angry blade thirsts for destruction."
And he awoke in cold sweat, nearly falling off the perch where he had made his rest. Traecon could only pinch the bridge of his nose in annoyance. He would see the King before his coronation, and prepare for the journey ahead. Every damn night the same scene had repeated, each as vivid as the last.
Worse still was the metallic cast. He had echoed that name, Vorpalslayer, and the metal reacted with such energy he had been knocked out for an hour, mere days before the Battle of Ragash. Quite the commotion then. While he had taken care to avoid mentioning it, the words haunted him. The dual-colored sword was definitely connected to that name. But clues were scant, and he wasn't one to search for hints in the cities or temples.
No.
He would head for the Forbidden City. It was where he got stuck with the damn thing. Time he had solved its mysteries. He made his way towards Gerra's chambers, intent on asking the lord's permission.
Elsewhere...
The King Gerra would be roused from whatever action he had been doing, prompted by a faint, shadowy being from the corner of his eye. In a bass, dark tone, it whispers in words only the giant can hear.
"Come, good king... a humble servant seeks your audience."
"Lord Gerra! Traecon Maxwell wishes an audience!"
Gerra.
Three sparks of azure blue hovered before a trio of giant stone statues, alight with a fire like the Sun. Their voices boomed, an absolute and undeniable power resonating from every tone, every word.
"By Decree of the Shadow, henceforth shall these three be granted the powers of their progenitors, those whom have carved legends unto History.
One among them hovered forth, and a greatsword stabbed into the stone before it. The wisp would behold the silvery metal, worked and tempered by hands old as time's beginning. The runes, carved by hands maddened yet enlightened. Writ in language unknown to mortal tongues.
Once more did the voices echo as one, as they declared the name of this instrument of world-wide fire. Through it, one would become the juggernaut of all pain.
A Titan of conquest.
A Paragon of WAR.
"Vorpalslayer. The angry blade thirsts for destruction."
And he awoke in cold sweat, nearly falling off the perch where he had made his rest. Traecon could only pinch the bridge of his nose in annoyance. He would see the King before his coronation, and prepare for the journey ahead. Every damn night the same scene had repeated, each as vivid as the last.
Worse still was the metallic cast. He had echoed that name, Vorpalslayer, and the metal reacted with such energy he had been knocked out for an hour, mere days before the Battle of Ragash. Quite the commotion then. While he had taken care to avoid mentioning it, the words haunted him. The dual-colored sword was definitely connected to that name. But clues were scant, and he wasn't one to search for hints in the cities or temples.
No.
He would head for the Forbidden City. It was where he got stuck with the damn thing. Time he had solved its mysteries. He made his way towards Gerra's chambers, intent on asking the lord's permission.
Elsewhere...
The King Gerra would be roused from whatever action he had been doing, prompted by a faint, shadowy being from the corner of his eye. In a bass, dark tone, it whispers in words only the giant can hear.
"Come, good king... a humble servant seeks your audience."
"Lord Gerra! Traecon Maxwell wishes an audience!"
Gerra.
