Once upon a time this sword may have been a sight to behold, but no more. Rust and decay now tarnish the metal of this forgotten relic, and those who stumble upon it are more likely to toss it than use it.
Tis but a scratch, send the guards and make sure they capture that joke of an assassin
“You will all die for what you have done to me!” Van Torxes hissed. As his face reddened with anger, he stormed out of the room towards his chambers.
The Shay-Keded, or “Sand-Slaughter” is a magical kopesh hailing from the forgotten deserts of Nehekhara. The blade steals the life-force of its victims into potent magical energy for its wielder. However, it holds a great curse that backlashes the wielder if the magical energy absorbed by the blade is not spent…
Maddoc sat amid a pile of unrecognizable corpses. Men, Dwarves, Orcs, you couldn't tell. He periodically took a stab at one with his new knife and screamed, "STOP LAUGHING AT ME!"
Corrupting weapon who hunger for souls to feed its master !
He struck out hard with the blade, cutting his foe down to the bone in the arm that held the weapon , only to feel agony in his own sword arm as if it too had been cut right down to the bone. As he dropped his blade due to the shock and two more opponents closed in to cut him down, he realised to his horror that his blade was a Feeling Sword and that he was unlikely to survive this fight.
As soon as he had set his eyes upon The Sword of all Swords he knew it must be the perfect blade for him. And he would stop at nothing to possess it!
"Never seen anything like it before. Two strikes, and the room was awash in blood."
A sword that stores the identity of the wielder. To transfuse the soul to the blade, one must first stab himself through the heart. The person will not die, but lose the freedom of the soul upon real death.
Some say the blade is cursed and brings despair to any who own it, others believe that it is merely coincidental misfortune.
Such a bloodied claymore has history way back through lines of father and son. In fact only one place near the handle still holds a metal tone, because of a magical barrier, and it has ingraved in it words that forever speak out to the swords bearer. Those words, like a guilty memory, can never be forgot.
“Thou who shall kill a sons father, shall then be killed by a fathers son.”
This mighty polearm contains the bound and unwilling spirit of a daemon, who’s dearest desire is eternal vengance on the one who bound him.
Bestowed by the pagan Godess Inar,upon the king of Silamarh in the his nation’s most dire time of need,it allowed to destroy nigh single-handed,the great horde of the infamous barbarian war-chief,Hordan.
The classic sword of the incorrigible munchkin,you think? Not quite.
A potent tool of battle for a confident warrior.
A dagger that makes the user think that he is invisible.
An ancient sword, corroded yet sharp, which heightens all the worst qualities of its bearer (eg bloodlust, greed, no care for others). [Edited for more detail.]
A blade of unmatched power. It is desired by many a warrior, and yet, everyone it comes in contact with is destroyed by it.
A weapon of unsurpassed power that takes a dire toll on its wielder.
“A brand forged in the dying embers of the old gods, such that a pact was formed in the light of the new era. The birthing gods of the lands would attribute to man his due accord or be unmade from the power that bore them. So it came that man was able to vanquish the tribulations that followed.” ~ Caeracyn folklore.
In the dry steppelands, one of their most valuable exports is the dried sap of the Larthorn tree. These ugly plants are covered with vicious thorns, but the locals harvest the golden droplets that ooze from their bark each Autumn. This sap, once dried, is valued for its medicinal properties and as a spice. Since little gold or silver is found in the hinterland, the dried droplets of sap are often used as currency by the locals.