Completed A Steel Bloom, Ripe for Picking

[Thronesplitter]

A splinter of glinting steel in a scar of scorched earth. The eye of the magpie caught it, attracted by its glow. But when it landed, it found to its bestial disappointment nothing but burnt trees and the glint of a massive blade catching the sunlight.

The glade was rendered into a black husk from its Falwood surroundings. In the outskirts of the forest, it might eventually attract fae, elven or human attention. But the critters of the woods found it first, tentatively prodding the ashes for sustenance, but finding nothing but the charred bones of a rider and his horse, a bit of blackened leather remaining from the saddle. Only five paces from these victims the greatsword bloomed from a growth of nature attempting to reclaim its wounded tissue.

It could have been there for weeks. Months, perhaps. The Falwood's floral growth had a temper entirely its own. The magpie chirped gaily, adding a strangely idyllic sound to this localised destruction. Given years, the sword might well disappear below netting hands of verdant green, healing the wounded undergrowth and removing all memory of its runed steel.

Unless another hand found it.

 

[Ispir Sione]

When one travels the world their tread can take them to all sorts of places. Ispir's most recent travels some them basking in nature between Vel Anir and Fal'Addas. Having heard wonderful things about the birthplace of elvenkind Ispir very much so wished to see the great tree there and the peaceful, contemplative atmosphere for which it was so well renowned!

Unfortunately he was a wanderer at heart and so couldn't resist, unintentionally mind, getting himself lost from several cases of idle curiosity getting the better of his good sense to stay on the road. So it was that the tiny Bard would hum and hymn his way through the brush. Vaaaaaguely, perhaps, in the direction of Fal'Addas until nighttime came.

Ispir would freeze, however, when they came up a scorched, smoldering clearing and a single, large sword in it's center. A soft, breathy and naive exclamation leaving the Bard.

"Oh heck!"

At the scene before them before they would scamper around like a curious squirrel, checking for survivors or anyone who might have been caught in this oddly small forest fire. Though the flames did not seem intent on spreading or even billowing choking smoke. Thus after a time Ispir would adjust his cap and come, at least, to the sword that was all but as tall as himself wedged into the center of the clearing. Wide, aquamarine eyes would awe down at the blade before he chirped.

"What a pretty sword!"

Scratching his head he would glance about.

"I wonder who left it here....."

Thronesplitter​

 

[Thronesplitter]

Ispir's search would reveal little in the way of survivors. The half-incinerated skull gawped up at him helplessly, its disentigrated jaw locked in an eternal - and final - scream. The crumbled saddle covered some of the horse's ribcage - the bones looking cleaned like from a spit at a hearty feast.

His vibrant eyes would catch the slip of a charred note, halfway out the saddle. The only words that remained, difficult enough to parse, read:

. . . meet . . . Vel . . . magic s . . .

The rest was dust for the forest to decipher.

Whatever fate this rider might have met, he was unable to aid Ispir's understanding. Or warn him.

A single cinder flickered from a rune, near the tip. It danced down the edge of the blade, like a mischevious sprite running its full length. Quick as a blink, and then it was gone. Had Ispir imagined it? He could have a vivid imagination, after all, and the sun did shine off brightly in its smoke-coloured steel.

Ispir Sione

 

[Ispir Sione]

Continuing to scritchscratch some thoughts loose Ispir would grimace at the grisly scene and hum. Magical swords being given out from ponds WAS the best way to pick a king, after all, but usually there was some magical lady to go along with it.... and... ya know... the pond Maybe she's who got burnt up? Did someone come for the magical king-sword and get mad when it wouldn't be given to them? It DID look fancy so that was possible.

Ispir wasn't, however, so foolish as to simply pick up an awesome-looking sword in the middle of nowhere though! Instead he took to a very tried and true method of determining if something was dangerous or not. Throwing a rock at it! So it was that Ispir picked up a small pebble and, scampering some few feet away, would huck the pebble cautiously at the blade which would bounce off it's metallic being with a soft 'TING ' .

And so... he waited to see what would happen.

Darkweaver​

 

[Thronesplitter]

The humble stone plinked off of the immaculate steel, and the forest held its breath. The trees remembered, though no human did.

But nothing seemed to happen. The magpie sang on, not a care in the world. A pair of squirrels slowly approached too, hoping food to drop off the human.

The only hint at a change was a few cinders below the blade, searing away what growth had come - like suppressed, seething rage.

Ispir Sione

 

[Ispir Sione]

Humming to himself Ispir would dust at his clothes and cup his chin as he pondered.

"Huh. That usually causes SOMETHING to happen."

Pouting at the sword for a moment he would start to timidly walk closer, eyes briefly drawn to the cinders flickering below the blade. This distraction would, however, cause him to trip. With a small yelp Ispir would flop into the dirt, sounding like someone had thrown a basketball through a live band performance as his instruments crashed down with him, his cap rolling close to the blade, and would cough as he stood himself up. Grumbling idly to himself he would fume.

"I just dusted these too...."

Hopping up and taking some time to dust himself off properly this time he would scamper up, grab his cap, adjust it onto his head before huffing.

"Well. Maybe I should have some sort of sword or something. Even if just to scare off mean people."

He reasoned, still not quite trusting the sword that was now spontaneously radiating cinders. So it was that with squinted eyes, a stuck-out tongue, and a handful of bravery that Ispir would reach out and tap a finger to the hilt of Thronesplitter and brace for..... something!​

 

[Thronesplitter]

A long stretch of silence and nothing but the ambience of the forest playing its own tune. After the crash and discordant sound of banging instruments, an orb of silence seemed to encompass the slim bard, a single finger on its leather. The hilt sported new, dark leather of fine make, unlike the ancient gold on its pommel and cross-guard. A miniature crown of jagged spikes, like some crown of thorns, shaped the pommel. Forgotten symbols and figures danced along the cross-guard, depicting some unfathomable battle - seven figures, facing a central shadow, etched into where the guard met blade, stretching that dominant silhouette into a tall shadow.

The connection was the most tentative and tenuous of ones. But it was enough.

In that hush, where nature's music died, a voice slithered into his ears, as sibilant as some great mamba coiling through the foliage of his mind, baring its hooked teeth.

"Well, now. Quite finished flinging pebbles at me, are you?"

Sparks ignited around the pommel and Ispir's finger, an arcane sheen promising power, glory and absolute destruction to his enemies. The weak, jade flickers of fire were strangely harmless, giving nothing but a tingle.

For now.

Ispir Sione

 

[Ispir Sione]

Ispir recognized a great story when he saw one and what danced across the pommel of this mysterious blade was certainly something to see! As the voice slithered into his mind and questioned him with something between indignation and curiosity Ispir's eyes would widen and he would gawp at the sword.

"Oh wow! You can talk!"

The arcane promise of power, glory and destruction of his enemies found no purchase in Ispir's soul however. Like a man trying to climb a wall of sheer glass there was simply nothing of that sort to cling onto in the naive Bard's spirit. This was no warrior, no glory seeker, but Ispir would grab the hilt all the same. But the reason that be return to Thronesplitter was not to claim the power it offered, or to achieve the visions of glory it whispered, but...... rather to give it someone to talk to. An overwhelming sense of empathy for the sword emanation from the Bard as Ispir replied.

"It must be pretty lonely being out here in the woods for so long huh? I'm real sorry about hitting you with that rock. I thought you might have tried to hurt me or something uhhh.... Big Sword?"

Ispir would smile and then idly ask.

"Do you like music?"​

 

[Thronesplitter]

A pause dangled between them, like a corpse dangling from a gallows, swaying with morbid history. This lapse of words could be interpreted as surprise, had the blade any facial gestures to offer.

A charitable soul. It should have been a welcome change, compared to what it had seen in this new age. But the bard's small hands held a softness more fit for the flimsy quill or the taught string of a lute than its regal hilt. A hilt which demanded supplication from at least two, size-able warrior's hands. This might well be mockery from the Gods.

But a mockery that possessed a fresh pair of legs, at least.

"Call me . . . Thronesplitter, my little friend. Oh, no, I will not hurt you," it whispered, acidic care dripping from its words, echoing like a sweet-talking drake in the cavern of his head. "So long as we can . . . *help* one another."

Impatience strained its attempted softness, like a hunter decked in bow and arrow might try not to scare off a deer.

"You are absolutely right. It is so quiet here . . . and while I can appreciate certain tunes . . . I would appreciate your wanderlust even more."

The jade fires turned almost blue, seductively curling around Ispir's slight form, attempting to match the aquamarine of his eyes. They tickled and spun like faerie fire, throwing his already bright clothes into a radiant glow.

Ispir Sione

 

[Ispir Sione]

Ispir tilted their head and set their twin tails of hair swaying in the air. Confusion evident in their features and spirit as they hummed.

"Thronesplitter....? Oh! I think I've heard stories about you!"

Puffing up proudly and closing their eyes Ispir would recite.

"The Killer Of Kings! The Eternal Blade! The Monarch's Bane! Crownbreaker!"

Ispir would open their mouth to speak another title before pausing, stuttering, then blinking their eyes open and looking down at the sword in confusion.

"Wait what are you doing all alone out here then?"

Ispir would smile softly at the tickling flames and nod, giving the sword a tug, but did not expect to be able to lift it. In truth he did have a sneaking suspicion that the blade had exploded with fire and killed it's last wielder. But THAT particular thought he tucked away deep into his mind so the sword couldn't hear it. He might have been naive but even he could put together that ominously glowing sentient fire sword looking for a wielder plus a clearing where a big fire happened plus an immolated skeleton probably meant the sword didn't like it's last wielder. But! This was a chance to get a source of Bardic knowledge right from the source couldn't be passed up!

"Also is it true that you were once a man who got trapped in the sword after having a lover's quarrel with one of the Queens of the Fey?"

Ispir would ask curiously.

"I've heard a lot of tales, even yours, but a lot of versions change depending on who you ask.... Oh! Also it's said that you were first used to split the throne of a jealous King of the Fey and that's how you got your name! Is... Is that true and if so which one?"

Thronesplitter​

 

[Thronesplitter]

The sword was not as heavy as the bard might have thought. Evidently crafted from a different material than regular steel, hailing from a more elegant time. The length of the blade however, might still prove cumbersome.

As Ispir talked and talked, the aquamarine, ingratiating colours bled from its fires, and their soft curls turned jagged and discordant, like flexing claws instead of carressing hands. The colours that suffused it turned more and more a venomous green - green like envy, pestilence and rot.

The bard's incessant chatter finally sprung the last chain on its straining impatience.

Spoiler: Music

"SILENCE!" the fires and voice roared at once, spewing forth a wave of heat, its mask of amiability slipping. The magpie flew away, its melodic song snapping into fleeing feathers, and the squirrels and whatever critters that had approached routed. A patch of budding flowers near them incinerated in its flare of rage, their pistils rendered into burning eyes of cinder, petals disentigrated.

It had not, however, roasted its current wielder, managing to curtail its destruction in one direction. It had learned the consequences of fully giving in to its frustration with these foolish mortals. Only its hilt had heated to the touch - uncomfortable, but not unbearable. It would try and endure this one.

Whether Ispir endured its touch in turn or dropped it, a sliver of their psychic connection remained, and it would go on regardless:

"Please," it said, silkily drawing out that singular word, folding its displeasured tones back into their previous gift-wrapping. "No need to dig up the past, my -- talkaktive little scholar. We should . . . focus on the future, instead . . ."

Perhaps part of its fury stemmed from its own speculation. Clearly, it had not been entirely forgotten in this age. It knew not exactly what these prattling fleshlings spoke of it today - but even worse, it could not exactly refute these myths and legends, since it hardly remembered itself.

But no reason for this plucking peacock to know. The minstrel was captivated by stories, it seemed. Let him be. So long as he walked in the right direction.

It defused its own fire, once again masquerading with harmless conversation.

"Now, why don't you tell me a little about . . . ahh . . . yourself. While we walk towards the nearest civilisation. I'm sure you are dying to show me the finest of all cities here . . ."

Ispir Sione

 

[Ispir Sione]

Ispir would let out a very brave and coherent sound as the flames poured forth. Something close to....

"Bwyaaah!"

And out of sheer reflex let go of the blade as he flung it away. Ducking and covering his head before he heard the sword's voice in his head again. Ispir would cough and fan at himself as the heat began to dissipate and then would pout at the blade that had landed on the ground among the ash and curled up plantlife. Burnt and dead.

'Ya know you could just SAY you don't want any questions before burning people right?"

He would huff before crossing his arms and plopping down on the ground.

"You're not making any sense. First you tell me to be quiet and then you want me to talk about myself? The stories never mentioned you being so grumpy!"

Remembering his earlier thought Ispir would sigh and, despite his words, stand up and pick up Thronesplitter again. Starting to walk as he did, indeed, talk about himself.

"I umm... can't say I have much to talk about. I've only been uhhh... awake for a few weeks maybe? I woke up on a mountaintop alone and don't remember much of anything before that. It isn't any fun not knowing anything about yourself ya know? But...."

Ispir would shrug and lug the too-big sword over a shoulder. Light or not this would cause him to stagger back a few steps before he continued.

"I suppose that's not an issue when you're a famous... grumpy... sword. Your name is pretty straightforward."​

 

[Thronesplitter]

Finally. It was moving again. It could feel life course and pump through the veins in his hand, travelling up his wrist and arm, and nearly grasp the agitated flutter of his tiny heart - it could almost smell the spring bloom of the Falwood through his nostrils.

It was invigorating - positively intoxicating. For this, it could weather his complaints and his inexperienced manner of lugging it like a piece of lumber rather than the glorious weapon it was.

It would remain silent for many minutes more, as they travelled. Almost as if it had gone to sleep. But like a patient crocodile, it had given itself over to its new sensations, the feel of his small, skeletal frame pounding across the endless earth, all wrapped in tender flesh and silk. It was wiser than answering him, at least for a time. Talk was risky, for both of them. It could wait, at least, until it had reached somewhere less lost in the wilds.

After a long while, it did eventually answer his musings, picking up the conversation as if it hadn't died half an hour ago.

"Curious. I thought you mortals cherished your memories like all your other senseless baubles." While its tones remained sardonic - blisteringly so - a small curiousity was lit within it. A candle of a kindred flame. It almost addressed itself as much as him, musing idly: "How could you lose them so carelessly, oh scholar of mine?"

Ispir Sione

 

[Ispir Sione]

Ispir would glance at the sword after it went quite for more than a few moments. Murmuring to himself.

"I guess sentient swords get tired too huh? That explains the grumpiness."

And so he walked, and walked, humming a soft tune before reaching a clearing with a lake and as he was sitting down to rest the blade finally answered.

"Oh! You surprised me with an answer so soon. Well I definitely don't think memories are senseless b-.... baubles. As for how...."

They shrugged.

"I'm not sure. I can forget things if I try but this feels different."

Humming at a sudden thought Ispir would ask.

"So... you're not mortal? Do you not rust or umm... chip when you hit armor and stuff? That's pretty amazing."

Thronesplitter​

 

[Thronesplitter]

"So... you're not mortal? Do you not rust or umm... chip when you hit armor and stuff? That's pretty amazing.

It wondered whether it should dignify this question with an answer.

"Whatever mortality I may have had, I have shed long ago, human. I have become something far greater than you can fathom. Rulers now tremble in my wake. But I'm sure you are already aware of this." There was a hollow quality to its pompous words, like ringing a cracked church bell. "And for your information, no. I do not rust or dent." It crackled those two words like an imperious fireplace spitting out pine. "That is a fate reserved for lesser steel."

There was a gap of speech, before it ventured, a little more softly - almost daring not to ask:

"And where do you plan on taking me, might I ask? I should hope to this Alli-rie capital of yours."

Ispir Sione

 

[Ispir Sione]

Ispir would nod idly while listening to the blade's tale, recognizing that he may have offended it... him... they... she? Whichever. Though at the sword's question Ispir would blink and shake their head. A small, pitch-black dollop of fear slinking along that connection of theirs. Like a bead of oil traveling down a thread of spider web.

"O-Oh. No I-.... I'm not going back there."

Adjusting their cap Ispir would explain.

"Last time I was there a cult tried to kidnap me and sacrifice me or... something. Probably to some evil thing considering what they were summoning just to fight people."

He shuddered in revulsion and stuck out his tongue in disgust.

"Oh! Do you maybe uhmm.... are you good at killing those things? I don't know what they're called but they're not seemingly alive really. They're like... fleshy and all stitched together but also summoned and stuff."

Thronesplitter​

 

[Thronesplitter]

"A cult, you say?" It tasted on that prospect, flares licking its enchanted steel like one might lick their lips. "Intriguing . . ."

"Anything made from the elements of this world I can destroy. Cowards who summon creatures to fight for them are no different. They will all *burn* before me, stitched or not."

A smooth oil added to its anticipatory and excited voice, like a smile greasing its hidden face.

"You have no reason to fear, scholar. So long as you carry me, the city is yours to peruse . . . along with your vengeance against these kidnappers . . ."

Ispir Sione

 

[Ispir Sione]

Ispir listened to Thronesplitter with obvious trepidation. His small heart quivering with fear at the idea of going back to confront those people who had drugged him. Even with the mighty mythical weapon in his grasp. Instead Ispir's dainty nose would flare as he drew in a quick, deep breathe and sighed.

"Maybe...."

Ispir would frown a little, picking up Thronesplitter not by the hilt but by laying the blade across his outstretched arms. His aquamarine gaze running up and down the artifact before he shook his head. His twin tails flicking to and fro as he did so.

"But I really don't think they'd be a big challenge for you. I bet you've got a ton of stories about killing even bigger and stronger things!"

Squinting and looking around Ispir would see a large tree leaning precariously out over the water and scamper up to it. An aged, old thing with gnarled branches, laden heavily with parasitic vines that had no doubt sapped at the proud tree for a long, long time.

"I bet you've even slain things bigger than this right? Could I maybe ask for a story about it? Ya know, so I feel safer taking you back there and make sure I'm safe?"​

 

[Thronesplitter]

Perhaps the sword sensed some trick a-foot. It certainly sensed the new tension from Ispir through his arms. But regardless, even if it knew it was being played, it couldn't help but indulge in glorifying its own achievements.

"If you seek stories, I can indeed regale you. In the hands of another wielder, I have slain a dragon that would dwarf this tree ten times. The dragon that guarded my tomb, deep in the Falwood, when I was sheathed through the ribcage of my first victim." It stayed silent for a moment, as if reflecting on this recent past. "He was a brute. Plain and simple. But he knew how to swing a weapon and swing it well. Sadly, he underestimated the greed of his liege lord . . . and so I changed hands soon enough."

Ispir Sione

 

[Ispir Sione]

Ispir would nod and, tongue sticking out in concentration, would grip Thronesplitter by the handle in both hands. A far cry from some mighty warrior and his stance was too narrow, his shoulders too slouched, but he was at least attempting some mock swings at the great tree as if it were a dragon of legend. Only when Thronesplitter's story finished did Ispir pause and huff from the light exertion of a few swings.

"So you've had a lot of owners, did you have a favorite one who umm... did the most things you liked? Or was the strongest?"

Ispir would go back to his practice swings, frail body huffing with effort and thin arms starting to quake a bit from the strain.​

 

[Thronesplitter]

The sword paused - perhaps from the endearing attempts at swinging it against the tree, perhaps from Ispir's question. After tasting bark rather than flesh, it finally sneered an answer:

"My wielders have all been pathetic, thus far. At least those I remember. You would ask me to choose among them, as you might choose between pox or the plague. The brute I have mentioned - more meat than sense, but at least he could satisfy my purpose, to a degree. His blunted wits saw him killed by his own liege lord, however, finding his grave in a ditch, and I ended in the possession of his cowardly lord. Smaller and frailer than you, even. Can you imagine? The halfling pipsqueak dared to court the idea of selling me for coin."

It spat that last word with unmitigated distaste. Then it went on, as it cut through another thick branch like it was paper.

"So I courted another soul with promises of riches and glory. He spirited me away from the halfling, seeking Vel Anir, to sell me to the Dreadlords. He too had only sense for gold. When he refused to follow my instructions and take me north rather than south, I ended him. You would have found his remains."

A gentle purr of threat entered its voice, speaking with faux civility, as if merely musing on the idea:

"I sincerely hope you shall prove more worthy than all of them, my little scholar. At least you may grace my hilt, for a time, until I may find a true warrior. And to that end, I should probably learn your name, shouldn't I?"

Ispir Sione

 

[Ispir Sione]

Ispir listened silently to the sword outright admit to despising all of it's wielders up until now.... which Ispir did catch that the sword did not exclude him. But he didn't act hurt, the stories it gave of how little it thought of it's owners only solidified the grumpy sword's personality in his mind and so Ispir kept swinging. Not saying a word until it mentioned finding the remains of it's last wielder for not listening to it. Ispir would grunt slightly in effort, going for a hard horizontal swing at the tree.

"Y-Yeah they really should have thought better than to sell you t-... oops!"

Stumbling and missing his swing Ispir's thin, shaking arms couldn't maintain his grip on Thronesplitter and so he released the over-large sword mid-swing and sent it flying, accidentally of course, out into the lake to land with a very loud, wet SPLOOSH before he panted.

"W-Whoops. Uhh... well... I guess not on the worthy part huh?"

Ispir would stick his tongue out at the evil sword.

"Guess you were right after all about me being pathetic huh?"

Turning Ispir would walk away from the lake, leaving the evil sword to hopefully never be found again.​

 

[Thronesplitter]

Bubbles spewed like an eddying curse on the water's surface. The sword sunk and sunk, until its tip touched the murky bottom, fouled by nature's muddy embrace.

And there, it seethed once again. It had only managed to traverse a mile or two at most from its original position. Now, hidden by water, it might well be forgotten, left in an eternal cage.

It refused to accept its fate. Though the waters constricted and quenched its fire, turning it to steam, rising up to the surface like a slumbering geyser.

It could only hope another might find it.