Voikirium
SV's Estalia Guy
- Location
- Ruritania Illinois
- Pronouns
- He/Him
Probably powdering it unless somebody specifically says to stick it in the pommel or something.
To Shield the World (Warhammer High Elf Mage Quest)
- Thread starter Voikirium
- Start date
- Fantasy
- Pronouns
- sapper
[X] Sword Aesthetic: a long, twohanded greatsword. The hilt bound with Fire-red leather with Bone-colored ridges for a secure grip. The manticore claw cleaved in 2 lengthwise forms the guard, with the 2 halves filled smooth and forming a crescent pointed towards the business end. Where the 2 halves of the guard meet and form a cross with the blade and the grip, Assuryan's Phoenix trailed in Gold is depicted. The metal blade flows in graceful manner, like waves or flames or the Winds themself. A fuller running along the spine, blue like the Heavens on 1 side and silver like a lightning bolt on the other. In the pummel, a counterweight of lead to make the sword perfectly balanced in the hand of their wielder. An instrument of Death and ending, sharp enough to cut even a Shadow, to protect Live and all that is Pure. A sword for a master of ancient lore, to wield in consort with the Winds of Magic in service of Ulthuan
inspired by this one, with slightly chanced colors, the guard made of the claw, and the decoration slighty amended. All 8 Winds are referenced in the design description, as is proper for a student of the White Tower, though Ghur's bones and Azyr's heavens are more strongly referenced as those winds are (currently) closest to us, and Assuryan's symbol taking center stage on the blade. still thinking on a blade name, perhaps something with service, or unity, or perhaps curiosity.
https://us.v-cdn.net/5021068/uploads/editor/lq/zdj7lw40c29h.jpg
[X] Name - Athel Eanith et Dromui - Noble struggle for hope
As our character is one of Ghur, which represents the natural struggle for survival, and wishes to fight to protect Ulthuan from those fallen from grace, so struggling nobly and fighting for hope / ascencions to Asuryan's heavens seems an onbrand name to me.
Athel - noble
Dromui - Hope, ascent, the Heavenward Stairs.
Eanith - Honour, burden, a contest of wills.
inspired by this one, with slightly chanced colors, the guard made of the claw, and the decoration slighty amended. All 8 Winds are referenced in the design description, as is proper for a student of the White Tower, though Ghur's bones and Azyr's heavens are more strongly referenced as those winds are (currently) closest to us, and Assuryan's symbol taking center stage on the blade. still thinking on a blade name, perhaps something with service, or unity, or perhaps curiosity.
https://us.v-cdn.net/5021068/uploads/editor/lq/zdj7lw40c29h.jpg
[X] Name - Athel Eanith et Dromui - Noble struggle for hope
As our character is one of Ghur, which represents the natural struggle for survival, and wishes to fight to protect Ulthuan from those fallen from grace, so struggling nobly and fighting for hope / ascencions to Asuryan's heavens seems an onbrand name to me.
Athel - noble
Dromui - Hope, ascent, the Heavenward Stairs.
Eanith - Honour, burden, a contest of wills.
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[X] A two handed scimitar, blade shining white as can be. The sword's crossguard and pommel are crafted out of gilded metal. It's hilt is made out of dark brown wood, sourced from Chrace (duh). The crossguard holds two Ruby gems at it's center (one for each side), reminiscent of freshly spilt blood, crimson, yet pure. The hilt is wrapped in dark red leather, while a tassle of white lion hair hangs from the pommel. it's name is written along the fuller of the blade, in flowing elven script.
[X] Name - Cynathyal/Deathclaw
[X] Name - Cynathyal/Deathclaw
Link doesn't work for me.
- Pronouns
- sapper
does it work now?
- Location
- United Kingdom
If we did a curved sword I'd rather do LotR style, and even then the lack of a crossguard would bug me.
[X] A straight greatsword as tall as you are, the blade shining silver and the hilt of light wood. The runes for Ceyl and Elthrai are placed on opposite faces of the blade, and the crossguard fashioned to give the impression of wings.
No idea on a name.
[X] A straight greatsword as tall as you are, the blade shining silver and the hilt of light wood. The runes for Ceyl and Elthrai are placed on opposite faces of the blade, and the crossguard fashioned to give the impression of wings.
No idea on a name.
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- Pronouns
- He/Him
[X] A two handed scimitar, blade shining white as can be. The sword's crossguard and pommel are crafted out of gilded metal. It's hilt is made out of dark brown wood, sourced from Chrace (duh). The crossguard holds two Ruby gems at it's center (one for each side), reminiscent of freshly spilt blood, crimson, yet pure. The hilt is wrapped in dark red leather, while a tassle of white lion hair hangs from the pommel. it's name is written along the fuller of the blade, in flowing elven script.
[X] Name - Cynathyal/Deathclaw
[X] Name - Cynathyal/Deathclaw
Yes, thank you.
- Location
- United States
- Pronouns
- He/Him
[X] A two handed scimitar, blade shining white as can be. The sword's crossguard and pommel are crafted out of gilded metal. It's hilt is made out of dark brown wood, sourced from Chrace (duh). The crossguard holds two Ruby gems at it's center (one for each side), reminiscent of freshly spilt blood, crimson, yet pure. The hilt is wrapped in dark red leather, while a tassle of white lion hair hangs from the pommel. it's name is written along the fuller of the blade, in flowing elven script.
[X] Name - Cynathyal/Deathclaw
[X] Name - Cynathyal/Deathclaw
[X] A two handed scimitar, blade shining white as can be. The sword's crossguard and pommel are crafted out of gilded metal. It's hilt is made out of dark brown wood, sourced from Chrace (duh). The crossguard holds two Ruby gems at it's center (one for each side), reminiscent of freshly spilt blood, crimson, yet pure. The hilt is wrapped in dark red leather, while a tassle of white lion hair hangs from the pommel. it's name is written along the fuller of the blade, in flowing elven script.
[X] Name - Cynathyal/Deathclaw
[X] Name - Cynathyal/Deathclaw
- Location
- Hyperborea
[X] Sword Aesthetic: Literally just the Elven Greatsword from Skyrim.
[X] Sword Aesthetic: a long, twohanded greatsword. The hilt bound with Fire-red leather with Bone-colored ridges for a secure grip. The manticore claw cleaved in 2 lengthwise forms the guard, with the 2 halves filled smooth and forming a crescent pointed towards the business end. Where the 2 halves of the guard meet and form a cross with the blade and the grip, Assuryan's Phoenix trailed in Gold is depicted. The metal blade flows in graceful manner, like waves or flames or the Winds themself. A fuller running along the spine, blue like the Heavens on 1 side and silver like a lightning bolt on the other. In the pummel, a counterweight of lead to make the sword perfectly balanced in the hand of their wielder. An instrument of Death and ending, sharp enough to cut even a Shadow, to protect Live and all that is Pure. A sword for a master of ancient lore, to wield in consort with the Winds of Magic in service of Ulthuan
[X] A straight greatsword as tall as you are, the blade shining silver and the hilt of light wood. The runes for Ceyl and Elthrai are placed on opposite faces of the blade, and the crossguard fashioned to give the impression of wings.
[X] Name - Athel Eanith et Dromui - Noble struggle for hope
Not sure why, but I'm not feeling the scimitar.
Edited to include another option:
[X] A bestial blade, with a jagged edge on one side, bound in white leather and fur around a blood red gem at the pommel. The manticore's claw forms the core of the blade.
[X] Sword Aesthetic: a long, twohanded greatsword. The hilt bound with Fire-red leather with Bone-colored ridges for a secure grip. The manticore claw cleaved in 2 lengthwise forms the guard, with the 2 halves filled smooth and forming a crescent pointed towards the business end. Where the 2 halves of the guard meet and form a cross with the blade and the grip, Assuryan's Phoenix trailed in Gold is depicted. The metal blade flows in graceful manner, like waves or flames or the Winds themself. A fuller running along the spine, blue like the Heavens on 1 side and silver like a lightning bolt on the other. In the pummel, a counterweight of lead to make the sword perfectly balanced in the hand of their wielder. An instrument of Death and ending, sharp enough to cut even a Shadow, to protect Live and all that is Pure. A sword for a master of ancient lore, to wield in consort with the Winds of Magic in service of Ulthuan
[X] A straight greatsword as tall as you are, the blade shining silver and the hilt of light wood. The runes for Ceyl and Elthrai are placed on opposite faces of the blade, and the crossguard fashioned to give the impression of wings.
[X] Name - Athel Eanith et Dromui - Noble struggle for hope
Not sure why, but I'm not feeling the scimitar.
Edited to include another option:
[X] A bestial blade, with a jagged edge on one side, bound in white leather and fur around a blood red gem at the pommel. The manticore's claw forms the core of the blade.
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- Pronouns
- He/Him
[X] A straight greatsword as tall as you are, the blade shining silver and the hilt of light wood. The runes for Ceyl and Elthrai are placed on opposite faces of the blade, and the crossguard fashioned to give the impression of wings.
- Location
- United Kingdom
Honestly the scimitar part I could live with, my main issue with that vote is that it feels... extravagant? Considering all the thoughts that went into the enchantment to ensure swift kills, gilding the metal and adding jewels feels like gussying it up too much.
I'd rather something more austere.
I'd rather something more austere.
- Location
- Your pantry
- Pronouns
- He/Him
i mean, that's looking at this from a rather human perspective. all elven weapons are pretty extravagant compared to human ones. We're a high elf for goodness sake. We have standards. Not to mention, this is an enchanted weapon. Those are a cut above all other weapons, and they should look like it. By high elven enchanted weaponry standards, ours is positively austere.
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- Location
- Australia
[X] A two handed scimitar, blade shining white as can be. The sword's crossguard and pommel are crafted out of gilded metal. It's hilt is made out of dark brown wood, sourced from Chrace (duh). The crossguard holds two Ruby gems at it's center (one for each side), reminiscent of freshly spilt blood, crimson, yet pure. The hilt is wrapped in dark red leather, while a tassle of white lion hair hangs from the pommel. it's name is written along the fuller of the blade, in flowing elven script.
[X] Name - Cynathyal/Deathclaw
[X] Name - Cynathyal/Deathclaw
- Location
- United Kingdom
I feel like we're using different definitions of standards. High elf items are better as standard than human ones because they have much higher quality materials, reagents and craftsmanship. There certainly will be some for which 'high standard' is equivalent to 'decked out in gold and jewels', but IMO nowhere near the level you seem to be implying.
This commission wasn't like that, and Methelian certainly didn't seem to expect it (though I only realise now how similar his is to my suggestion. Oops).
- Location
- India
- Pronouns
- He/Him
This feels like something entirely too long as a name for a sword, to me at least.
[X] Sword Aesthetic: a long, twohanded greatsword. The hilt bound with Fire-red leather with Bone-colored ridges for a secure grip. The manticore claw cleaved in 2 lengthwise forms the guard, with the 2 halves filled smooth and forming a crescent pointed towards the business end. Where the 2 halves of the guard meet and form a cross with the blade and the grip, Assuryan's Phoenix trailed in Gold is depicted. The metal blade flows in graceful manner, like waves or flames or the Winds themself. A fuller running along the spine, blue like the Heavens on 1 side and silver like a lightning bolt on the other. In the pummel, a counterweight of lead to make the sword perfectly balanced in the hand of their wielder. An instrument of Death and ending, sharp enough to cut even a Shadow, to protect Live and all that is Pure. A sword for a master of ancient lore, to wield in consort with the Winds of Magic in service of Ulthuan
[X] Name - Athel Eanith et Dromui - Noble struggle for hope
This 'name' could easily be an inscription engraved down the fuller, and the actual name name be a shortened version (I. e. Atheldromui / Noble-hope).
[X] Name - Athel Eanith et Dromui - Noble struggle for hope
This 'name' could easily be an inscription engraved down the fuller, and the actual name name be a shortened version (I. e. Atheldromui / Noble-hope).
- Location
- A Pit Of My Own Making
- Pronouns
- He/Him
Heh. Cut.
Also I don't think we need to have a fancy sword, just something capable to fulfilling it's purpose; killing things
- Location
- United Kingdom
[X] Sword Aesthetic: Literally just the Elven Greatsword from Skyrim.
[X] A straight greatsword as tall as you are, the blade shining silver and the hilt of light wood. The runes for Ceyl and Elthrai are placed on opposite faces of the blade, and the crossguard fashioned to give the impression of wings.
Adding an approval vote for the Skyrim lookalike.
[X] A straight greatsword as tall as you are, the blade shining silver and the hilt of light wood. The runes for Ceyl and Elthrai are placed on opposite faces of the blade, and the crossguard fashioned to give the impression of wings.
Adding an approval vote for the Skyrim lookalike.
- Location
- India
- Pronouns
- He/Him
@Voikirium Calling the vote today?
- Location
- India
- Pronouns
- He/Him
Btw, we are set for kicking off the Temple exploration this turn, right?
The Claw of Death
Voikirium
SV's Estalia Guy
- Location
- Ruritania Illinois
- Pronouns
- He/Him
The Claw of Death
Rolled: 35+30 (Bonus from Manticore Claw)=65+10 (Two Ap Invested)=75
You meditate upon the steel, your eyes closed, sitting cross-legged within the forge. The fire does not burn, but the statues of the gods seem to glower down at you in judgment as you become them and they become you, god and mortal entwined together as it ought to be. It is as white as Manticore bone, you know this, and much like bone the enchantment you desire is wrought upon it. You are not some bumbling Druchii conjurer of parlor tricks, but a Mage of the White tower and so you will not force the magics you seek upon this artifice. No, that is not your way. Instead you follow the grains of magic already hidden within it, just waiting for someone to coax them out, and begin to pour your will, your skill, into the vessel.
The might of Ghur, the grace of the predator. You remember the first time your mother ever took you to hunt; an oddity, for by rights it is only proper that man should teach his son. But at the time you neither knew nor cared. All you cared for was the sound of the birds in the sky. The grass under your feet. The wind in your hair. And when the time came, you cared that your bow shot was delivered…adequately, at best. You were a hunter who wanted to eat, not a tormenter who enjoyed suffering, and so you delivered its end swiftly.
Amber light slowly drifts out of the steel in delicate motes.
The quickness of the lightning and the thunder. There in one moment, and gone in the next. And in surety there is only destruction left, only flickering fires and shattered glass, the certainty of destruction. The lashing of the winds and rain. The crashing of the waves. The rolling of the clouds. All that is destructive in the storm, channeled through you and through your memories. Who knows how many storms you've seen, how many trees toppled by lightning, how many raging forest fires begun by the power held within the lightning and the thunder? Azyr, in its most primordial, elemental form.
Sapphire light burns brighter as the two are entwined by your will, strengthening it.
Counterparts.
Some swear the more Winds the better.
They are wrong. That is not to say that one could not, of course, feed all eight Winds into a thing to make something of wonder. But better to do as you are doing and weave them well. You take the two antipodal motes and bind them together in what they have in common, the raw power of nature, feeding it. With the hurricane and with the diagrams of gryphons. With the lightning and the study of lions. With the comet ad the speed of hawks.
All at once it is ready.
You are ready.
With an expression of pure Aqshy you light the furnace and the fires beneath the gods, giving them a divine light, a mystic light, for they are one and the same. You thrust the steel into the fire within a pair of hard tongs even as it begins to glow a strange and mercurial shade that dances between an orange like jasper and a blue like sapphire, and the metal soon enough begins to glow red hot, as the magic fire touches it and as it does you chant and then you are not you and yet you are and—
She has killed your guest.
The metal sings as you move it to the forge and as you take the ground manticore claw and pour it on the hot metal, allowing the curdled Ghur and Azyr within to separate from the Dhar caused by the mutations forced on the poor creature by the Beastmasters. The Dhar itself sets alight as the enchantment of Asuryan burns into being, falling apart into the eight separate Winds and coming to mundane reality as a rainbow of light, even as whatever is not cleansed is whisked away into the vortex.
She has killed your guest, but She cannot kill your hope, for what is your hope but your plan? Draugnir's body cools before you, and She thinks She has won. Has proved Herself the better hunter, even if She is bound into the Underworld for it, never again to know the Heavens. You will not let Her win. You will not let hope die. So you begin to cut.
The next time you are you, the blade has begun to take shape. A curved thing, the better to dance and cut, if not quite so much so as the Arabyan's wield. It is, proportionally, thin, the better for speed. As long as the length between your knee to the top of your head, big enough that you would require two hands to wield it. Not so large you could not hold it in one hand, and so a staff remains possible; but perhaps a wand might serve you better now? Questions for later.
The first thing you take are the scales. Dark as a muttered curse, and yet lustrous as the sun-warmed sea. These you give to Isha, fair Isha, who weeps for the slain dragon, for that is Her, it is what She does, She is the pity in every heart given shape. You take the flesh, and you smooth it and work it, and becomes the plains of what is to be the home of your people. The bones you take and carve and scrimshaw and forge, and they become the mountains. It is Ulthuan.
The next thing you see, you are taking your chisel and intricately carving the runes within the fuller, the filling them with gold, the better to shine. Cyanthyal, Claw of Death—Deathclaw, and there is an odd amusement in the name. The runes shape the magic you cultivated in the steel, allowing it to express itself more fully. The magic flows as you desire, as you crave, as you follow a path that has been trodden before but never so skillfully.
The heart you leave behind, the heart shall be worked for another day, the heart shall be the heart of hope when all hope seems faded and worn, a thing to be kept safe. Instead you march on the Underworld, where dread Khaine who rules by the Sword holds court, waiting for the day of reckoning. He laughs as the Huntress boasts of Her Murder, and if you had not already proclaimed your judgment She would suffer more for Her deed. But rather than to turn back on your word, you let them laugh, revealing their ignorance, until all at once you unveil Ulthuan and let them understand that they shall not have it, for your children will guard it.
Khaine, in turn, promises that He will see it burn.
You relish the challenge.
The next thing you know you are carving the hilt. A fine hunk of oak, and held within two rubies (don't ask what spells you had to perform to earn those) hold a glimmer of the magic each, far from power stones but a representation, held within the curved crossguard of gilded steel, which flows over your fingers and over your wrist to protect them the better. Wrapped around the grip proper, simple leather, worked though until it is soft as silk, and dyed a brilliant red. The pommel is a golden phoenix, and dangling from it, a tassel of white lion's fur.
You hold it aloft and let it catch the rays of glimmering light, as awareness returns back to you. Moving, shifting, flowing, you are not stiff nor slowed nor stilled; but your mind returns to awareness. Your will becomes clear again as the magic fades from you. The world makes sense slowly and surely.
It is…it is not perfect. The lingering touch of the creator's vision on your eyes assures you of that much. You can see the flaws, the places where the magical matrix could be more finely woven, a weakness in the steel, a flawed touch of the chisel.
But.
It is a superb weapon indeed.
"It is quite a sword," Tethia says, in her intricate, long robes. She says nothing about the fact that you at some point stripped off your own top, though she does toss a simple tunic to you, one you slide on with little fanfare, for you are too busy examining your sword for it.
"It is Cyanthyal, and it will be a bane to all evil."
"You seek the path of the Loremaster then?"
"I seek that the next time I am face to face with a damn Manticore, I have options aside from flight or fire."
Any spell truly worth a damn against a Manticore runs the risk, remote but present, of a miscast, even for an elven Mage. And that, that you cannot allow.
"You fear the beast, so you form a weapon that makes you get close to fight it. Truly the wisdom of a mage."
"I am no beast's prey, so I make a weapon that makes me its predator. Truly the wisdom of Ghur." You give her a meaningful look. "Never forget that, Tethia Firemane." You know it is the Aqshy that burns around her, but much like a poison simply because you know it is present does not make it less so. At best it allows you to brace yourself for the mix of courage and anger and other, lesser things her presence inspires within you. It is not something imposed on your spirit, of course; all the flame is that which you bring with you. But it burns all the same.
"I think if you were to become a Loremaster, Vardanis, you would need to follow the Old Way. Asuryan demands much of His Servants."
"By serving Hoeth, I serve Asuryan. Besides, Lileath too marks mages; what is one more god. But yes, I have considered it. It will be nice, I think, to see what others think, to learn what others learn, to know what others know."
"Hm. Very well Vardanis. I care little whether you should walk the path of Loremaster or Archmage, neither is beneath you, but I do hope you keep up." As though to punctuate her point, she grabs Ulgu and Hysh, Aqshy and Ghyran, and weaves them for a brief moment, though only a moment, into not so much a spell as a show, singing as she does in imitation of her Goddess.
"I do not think your heart so bleak, Tethia, that you should abandon me so easily."
"Oh you are not so lucky, Vardanis, rest assured of that. I would keep you as amusement in my court before I allowed you to fade from my side, and then force you to become the Mage I know you can be. But the world keeps turning, and there are those who are not so amused so easily."
Your repartee is stopped by the sound of hooves upon the stone outside. The smell of…Wisteria?
You hoist your sword over your shoulder. "Well I would hate to disappoint, wouldn't I?"
Epic Creation of note:
Cynathyal/Deathclaw: A masterfully made sword, if one sometimes surpassed. Every blow that strikes true strikes deadly, as surely as a griffon's claws. (+15 to all combat rolls)
Improve forging to 15 Points per AP.
[X] Name - Cynathyal/Deathclaw
[X] A two handed scimitar, blade shining white as can be. The sword's crossguard and pommel are crafted out of gilded metal. It's hilt is made out of dark brown wood, sourced from Chrace (duh). The crossguard holds two Ruby gems at it's center (one for each side), reminiscent of freshly spilt blood, crimson, yet pure. The hilt is wrapped in dark red leather, while a tassle of white lion hair hangs from the pommel. it's name is written along the fuller of the blade, in flowing elven script.
[X] A two handed scimitar, blade shining white as can be. The sword's crossguard and pommel are crafted out of gilded metal. It's hilt is made out of dark brown wood, sourced from Chrace (duh). The crossguard holds two Ruby gems at it's center (one for each side), reminiscent of freshly spilt blood, crimson, yet pure. The hilt is wrapped in dark red leather, while a tassle of white lion hair hangs from the pommel. it's name is written along the fuller of the blade, in flowing elven script.
Rolled: 35+30 (Bonus from Manticore Claw)=65+10 (Two Ap Invested)=75
You meditate upon the steel, your eyes closed, sitting cross-legged within the forge. The fire does not burn, but the statues of the gods seem to glower down at you in judgment as you become them and they become you, god and mortal entwined together as it ought to be. It is as white as Manticore bone, you know this, and much like bone the enchantment you desire is wrought upon it. You are not some bumbling Druchii conjurer of parlor tricks, but a Mage of the White tower and so you will not force the magics you seek upon this artifice. No, that is not your way. Instead you follow the grains of magic already hidden within it, just waiting for someone to coax them out, and begin to pour your will, your skill, into the vessel.
The might of Ghur, the grace of the predator. You remember the first time your mother ever took you to hunt; an oddity, for by rights it is only proper that man should teach his son. But at the time you neither knew nor cared. All you cared for was the sound of the birds in the sky. The grass under your feet. The wind in your hair. And when the time came, you cared that your bow shot was delivered…adequately, at best. You were a hunter who wanted to eat, not a tormenter who enjoyed suffering, and so you delivered its end swiftly.
Amber light slowly drifts out of the steel in delicate motes.
The quickness of the lightning and the thunder. There in one moment, and gone in the next. And in surety there is only destruction left, only flickering fires and shattered glass, the certainty of destruction. The lashing of the winds and rain. The crashing of the waves. The rolling of the clouds. All that is destructive in the storm, channeled through you and through your memories. Who knows how many storms you've seen, how many trees toppled by lightning, how many raging forest fires begun by the power held within the lightning and the thunder? Azyr, in its most primordial, elemental form.
Sapphire light burns brighter as the two are entwined by your will, strengthening it.
Counterparts.
Some swear the more Winds the better.
They are wrong. That is not to say that one could not, of course, feed all eight Winds into a thing to make something of wonder. But better to do as you are doing and weave them well. You take the two antipodal motes and bind them together in what they have in common, the raw power of nature, feeding it. With the hurricane and with the diagrams of gryphons. With the lightning and the study of lions. With the comet ad the speed of hawks.
All at once it is ready.
You are ready.
With an expression of pure Aqshy you light the furnace and the fires beneath the gods, giving them a divine light, a mystic light, for they are one and the same. You thrust the steel into the fire within a pair of hard tongs even as it begins to glow a strange and mercurial shade that dances between an orange like jasper and a blue like sapphire, and the metal soon enough begins to glow red hot, as the magic fire touches it and as it does you chant and then you are not you and yet you are and—
She has killed your guest.
The metal sings as you move it to the forge and as you take the ground manticore claw and pour it on the hot metal, allowing the curdled Ghur and Azyr within to separate from the Dhar caused by the mutations forced on the poor creature by the Beastmasters. The Dhar itself sets alight as the enchantment of Asuryan burns into being, falling apart into the eight separate Winds and coming to mundane reality as a rainbow of light, even as whatever is not cleansed is whisked away into the vortex.
She has killed your guest, but She cannot kill your hope, for what is your hope but your plan? Draugnir's body cools before you, and She thinks She has won. Has proved Herself the better hunter, even if She is bound into the Underworld for it, never again to know the Heavens. You will not let Her win. You will not let hope die. So you begin to cut.
The next time you are you, the blade has begun to take shape. A curved thing, the better to dance and cut, if not quite so much so as the Arabyan's wield. It is, proportionally, thin, the better for speed. As long as the length between your knee to the top of your head, big enough that you would require two hands to wield it. Not so large you could not hold it in one hand, and so a staff remains possible; but perhaps a wand might serve you better now? Questions for later.
The first thing you take are the scales. Dark as a muttered curse, and yet lustrous as the sun-warmed sea. These you give to Isha, fair Isha, who weeps for the slain dragon, for that is Her, it is what She does, She is the pity in every heart given shape. You take the flesh, and you smooth it and work it, and becomes the plains of what is to be the home of your people. The bones you take and carve and scrimshaw and forge, and they become the mountains. It is Ulthuan.
The next thing you see, you are taking your chisel and intricately carving the runes within the fuller, the filling them with gold, the better to shine. Cyanthyal, Claw of Death—Deathclaw, and there is an odd amusement in the name. The runes shape the magic you cultivated in the steel, allowing it to express itself more fully. The magic flows as you desire, as you crave, as you follow a path that has been trodden before but never so skillfully.
The heart you leave behind, the heart shall be worked for another day, the heart shall be the heart of hope when all hope seems faded and worn, a thing to be kept safe. Instead you march on the Underworld, where dread Khaine who rules by the Sword holds court, waiting for the day of reckoning. He laughs as the Huntress boasts of Her Murder, and if you had not already proclaimed your judgment She would suffer more for Her deed. But rather than to turn back on your word, you let them laugh, revealing their ignorance, until all at once you unveil Ulthuan and let them understand that they shall not have it, for your children will guard it.
Khaine, in turn, promises that He will see it burn.
You relish the challenge.
The next thing you know you are carving the hilt. A fine hunk of oak, and held within two rubies (don't ask what spells you had to perform to earn those) hold a glimmer of the magic each, far from power stones but a representation, held within the curved crossguard of gilded steel, which flows over your fingers and over your wrist to protect them the better. Wrapped around the grip proper, simple leather, worked though until it is soft as silk, and dyed a brilliant red. The pommel is a golden phoenix, and dangling from it, a tassel of white lion's fur.
You hold it aloft and let it catch the rays of glimmering light, as awareness returns back to you. Moving, shifting, flowing, you are not stiff nor slowed nor stilled; but your mind returns to awareness. Your will becomes clear again as the magic fades from you. The world makes sense slowly and surely.
It is…it is not perfect. The lingering touch of the creator's vision on your eyes assures you of that much. You can see the flaws, the places where the magical matrix could be more finely woven, a weakness in the steel, a flawed touch of the chisel.
But.
It is a superb weapon indeed.
"It is quite a sword," Tethia says, in her intricate, long robes. She says nothing about the fact that you at some point stripped off your own top, though she does toss a simple tunic to you, one you slide on with little fanfare, for you are too busy examining your sword for it.
"It is Cyanthyal, and it will be a bane to all evil."
"You seek the path of the Loremaster then?"
"I seek that the next time I am face to face with a damn Manticore, I have options aside from flight or fire."
Any spell truly worth a damn against a Manticore runs the risk, remote but present, of a miscast, even for an elven Mage. And that, that you cannot allow.
"You fear the beast, so you form a weapon that makes you get close to fight it. Truly the wisdom of a mage."
"I am no beast's prey, so I make a weapon that makes me its predator. Truly the wisdom of Ghur." You give her a meaningful look. "Never forget that, Tethia Firemane." You know it is the Aqshy that burns around her, but much like a poison simply because you know it is present does not make it less so. At best it allows you to brace yourself for the mix of courage and anger and other, lesser things her presence inspires within you. It is not something imposed on your spirit, of course; all the flame is that which you bring with you. But it burns all the same.
"I think if you were to become a Loremaster, Vardanis, you would need to follow the Old Way. Asuryan demands much of His Servants."
"By serving Hoeth, I serve Asuryan. Besides, Lileath too marks mages; what is one more god. But yes, I have considered it. It will be nice, I think, to see what others think, to learn what others learn, to know what others know."
"Hm. Very well Vardanis. I care little whether you should walk the path of Loremaster or Archmage, neither is beneath you, but I do hope you keep up." As though to punctuate her point, she grabs Ulgu and Hysh, Aqshy and Ghyran, and weaves them for a brief moment, though only a moment, into not so much a spell as a show, singing as she does in imitation of her Goddess.
"I do not think your heart so bleak, Tethia, that you should abandon me so easily."
"Oh you are not so lucky, Vardanis, rest assured of that. I would keep you as amusement in my court before I allowed you to fade from my side, and then force you to become the Mage I know you can be. But the world keeps turning, and there are those who are not so amused so easily."
Your repartee is stopped by the sound of hooves upon the stone outside. The smell of…Wisteria?
You hoist your sword over your shoulder. "Well I would hate to disappoint, wouldn't I?"
Epic Creation of note:
Cynathyal/Deathclaw: A masterfully made sword, if one sometimes surpassed. Every blow that strikes true strikes deadly, as surely as a griffon's claws. (+15 to all combat rolls)
Improve forging to 15 Points per AP.
QuietlyObserving
The Railgun That Walks Like a Bear
- Location
- Here.
Loved that vision of Asuryan crafting Ulthuan, I live for that kind of lore fluff.
Not a perfect sword of course, but for a first weapon? Pretty damn good work.
Not a perfect sword of course, but for a first weapon? Pretty damn good work.
These two are perfect for each other.
