A Tale of Blood and Steel
Thirtieth Day of the Eight Month 292 AC
As he walked back to his laboratory in one of the more modest rooms of the Shadow Tower, Maelor wondered idly how many chickens he had slain for the cause. Scores, perhaps a hundred. The boy had never liked chickens, foul-tempered stupid things... and he still remembered almost losing a hand when he had been younger over attempted chicken theft. So all in all he could bear their sacrifice with good cheer, though he could do without the constant noise, the feathers, and the occasional bird shit.
The delicate stone knife in the young mage's hand descended on the unfortunate rooster and blood sprayed again upon the stone table surrounding the "dagger" of desecrated dragonsteel, bearing an etching of the sun that spread not light but darkness that was poison to all life. It had once been a sword, though if Maelor was any judge on the matter it had been more than mischance that had shattered it, some great dishonor or curse of black sorcery perhaps. The patterns in the blood were clearer than he had ever seen them, crimson overlaying the rusted red of past attempts to tell the full tale he sought...
Who could have known the key was being too lazy to clean up after myself? Sloth was a sin, the boy supposed, and his magic was born of the Pit.
In letters of blood old and new, in tendrils of oily corruption the young sorcerer read the tale of the sword "Wing-Breaker," broken in turn. It had been forged to slay a mighty Harpy whose song was said to sway even hearts of stone, and whose claws dripped venom such as could poison onto death a dragon in flight. A sword forged in the shadows for no task but murder, never to gleam in the honest light of battle. Its task it had fulfilled and many more over the years, a weapon of fell repute it had become, staining the name of any who bore it even as it sated their darkest desires. Brother had killed brother, and children greedy for inheritance had slain their parents until at last such foulness had clung to the sword as to eat at the flesh and darken the spirit of any who bore it that only those who lived in death could bear it.
Entranced by the gruesome tale the boy almost did not notice his own hand reaching for the hilt of the dagger... he pulled it back as if burned mere inches from touching, unsure if it was whatever evil lingered in the blade that compelled or the resonance with his own dark heritage.
Could I bear it safely? he wondered as he avidly read on.
As was only fitting for a sword of murder, it was broken in a just but tragic cause. A sorcerer as powerful as he was wicked trapped a pair of twins, his own sisters' sons, in a pit and tossed the dagger down proclaiming that he would allow the one who slew his brother with the blade to leave. One brother slew himself with the sword thinking to save the other, but rather than take the chance at life the one that might have lived attacked the mage without warning. Though he succeeded at his task he died in the doing of it, the sword broke in his hand for being used in a righteous act at once aligned and opposed to its very nature.
Garin would be able to use it, the boy thought, letting out a long sigh between his teeth and carefully wrapping it up.
OOC: You guys are right, you do have too many old items lying around unidentified, so here's one of the oldest. You can try to reforge the blade if you want and it will be much stronger.
Needless to say I'm completely behind this idea. This provides a nice and clean way to deal with the problem provided Yss agrees to it.
