Private Tales Sharp blades and Sharper wills.

[Thronesplitter]

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 chrysalis; the shell of its bondage being its own, blocky body and the swirling, arcane storm around it.

These flames were entirely different to its own covetous and green flare; where Thronesplitter's fires devoured, these fires reformed, first with invisible hands, before hardening these new features like clay in an oven. Where the blade's touch only destroyed, the touch of this Resilient Lady took base matter -- and reformed anew.

It was extraordinary.

Not as powerful as its own magic, of course, that would be impossible for it to believe. But there was a finesse to this magic at work, playfully reshaping flesh as easily as if re-knitting clothes.

When the work was done and the red glare subdued, a new person seemed to have taken Tar's place. That was a possibility as well, of course -- that Tar had been sacrificed to make way for another being. But there was something in the woman that rose that reminded it of that man that had fallen . . . something about their wary and balanced gait, the strange dignity hidden deep within slumped shoulders.

It flared with its green cinders; a distant beacon amongst all this contrast colour. It desired to speak to Tar, or whoever had taken his place, but it could not reach this far for words with its psychic connection.

Feyrith

 

[Feyrith]

The tiefling's words caught up slowly to Her. She watched it hum over a name.
Perhaps she should have declared her own but shaken as she was, she found herself bending to the will of another even now.
She looked down at her hands again the smooth hands, unscarred, all fingers accounted for. It was like staring at the hands of a stranger. They were shaking slightly. She clasped her hands together to steady them.
Then a glint caught the corner of her eye. A familiar shape. This she remembered.
The drow stood a little unsteadily and gravitated towards it.
Moving felt strange, as if floating, had they really been carrying so much weight before? Had they been shambling about before? All they knew was where their foot falls had been heavy and determined once they now had a more tentative quality.

She grasped the hilt of the sword like a lifeline. In it's blade and it's arcanely glimmering runes was akin to the only friendly face she could recall. Her memories had become a soup, a half remembered childhood, a handful of memories she perhaps didn't wish to recall, then a big hazy blank spot. Yet she remembered very clearly fleeing the underdark, and retrieving this sword.

"Ah! I have just the name!"

She turned back to the Tiefling briefly, still holding the sword close.

"Oh, I'm a bit surprise you can still hold it up so easily."

Her eyes turned back to the sword. Perhaps it was a touch heavier....

Thronesplitter

 

[Thronesplitter]

"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

 

[Feyrith]

She held the sword for a moment as it peered into the depths of her without eyes.
It was a more difficult question to answer than she would have liked.
As if there were chunks of her psyche missing or intersecting each other. It was all a bit disordered. But she remembered it. Remembered the plunge of the cold water and the way it had warmed as they had swam down to the eerie green light. Remembered the feel of it's weight in their hands.

A bit stiltedly and with great effort they replied "I drew you from the lake." Then more firmly "I am that wielder."
Tutting came from Esmoria who had drawn closer to the two.
"I would be careful with that if I were you. If you attempt to reclaim that which you have sacrificed I cannot protect you, nor can I predict what wrath might occur. Do not attempt to draw forth that which is forgotten, lest you come undone."
The Tiefling warned in the same manner one might warn a child not steal a treat before dinner. The drow could not decided if her smiling face made the words more or less ominous.
"Now then, I would bestow you the name Feyrith."

The drow mulled this over it was as good a name as any they supposed.
The Tiefling tilted their head in with a thoughtful smile "Or would you prefer to be christened in a name of your own choosing?"
The drow mulled it over. The world seemed overwhelmingly full of possibilities at the moment.
She had a vague memory, that the her of before had a terrible name, a name that had meant wound, a name that carried shame and misfortune. Yet so little came to mind in way of names. They had been things little interest to her before. Only targets, nothing more. Why cherish names when your only purpose is to kill.
"what does it mean? Feyrith?"
Esmoria smiled proudly "It means one who believes without faith."

She thought this over, her eyes turning back to the sword.

Thronesplitter

 

[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 to higher powers. Belief in your own abilities, in my abilties, is far superior. Just as you know fire to be hot and water to be wet, you know the truth of our combined might. Know it, rather than pray for it."

A lapse of silence issued from it. It prodded against the remaining shell of Feyrith's psyche, paid attention to her particular grip on its hilt. The touch had changed physically, rendered more delicate; but in manner, it still held the sword with a clenched vigilance, at once a worried clasp and re-assured by the grip and weight of sharpened steel -- a warrior's grip, mingled with the sporadic tightening and slackening of a fugitive.

Feyrith