A Legend of Murder and Suffering

GAME: Seldan casts Magic Circle Against Evil. Caster Level: 16 DC: 23

And so Seldan has come to the vault of Eluna once again to contemplate a dagger in a secured room, under the watchful eye of some of Eluna's other champions. It's not that they don't trust him, they plainly do, but one can never be too careful when dealing with evils like this. They're unpredicable. The knife is unchanged since the last time Seldan saw it.

Notably, Seldan has left all weapons and armor outside the vault, making no attempt to bring anything of the sort inside this place. He has kept his clothing simple, shirt, trousers, and magical defenses only. The guard is gratefully accepted, and before he even begins, he with swift sigils under Eluna's holy aegis lays down a circle of protection that encompasses both him and the dagger, and shields him from the evil within the weapon.

Or so he hopes. One never knows entirely with such as this.

Once his preparations are laid, he settles down cross-legged on the floor within the confines of the circle, without attempt to soften it, and unrolls the scroll, reading through it carefully. The casting, when he begins, becomes almost a form of meditation, a chant that at its completion sets him into a half-trancelike state, one that leaves him vaguely aware of his surroundings, but far from attentive to them. Indeed, it is as if half of his mind is elsewhere.

GAME: Seldan rolls 1d4: (4): 4

(The spell requires 40 minutes to cast.)

The blade remains visibly plain before Seldan. Time passes and then he ... slips. Like travelling weightleslly down through the earth, down to a realm of fire and embers, of smoke and screaming souls fed into a a great furnance by demonic workmen, smeling them down. What Seldan sees is not literal truth, of course, but the legend itself spilling out before him, as the stuff of molten souls is poured and shaped. Where molten iron and steel are made, there too is pig iron, and what is gathered together by a shadowed figure is a kind of spiritual pig iron. He pours the pig-iron ingots into the mold of a blade, shaping, hammering. His forge, anvil, and hammer are too wrought from black iron, and as he hammers, it is not merely the blade that begins to take shape, but it's wielder: unknown until the beginnings of his legend. That's what this is.

Forcing himself into stillness, to be an observer of what he knew full well was likely to be a stomach-turning experience. To witness the legend of a blade forged by a demon, and its wielder, could not reasonably be expected to be a pleasant experience. Still, anything he can glean about that blade, its wielder, how it was formed and shaped, might give him a clue as to how to destroy it. And so, he forces himself into impassive, stone-like stillness, forcing himself to be only an observer.

Stomach-turning is perhaps mild.

...but the blade made from the cast off bits of souls that weren't otherwise fit to be used is complete. It's wielder is still a shadow, but coming more and more into focus. First, there is a sound. a discordant jingling that accompanies his motions. It is certainly the opposite of harmony. Like a sound that calls one to listen deeper for a hidden message that is ever elusive.

The scene shifts, now, a war fought between demons and devils. Raiding parties in the abyss as devils seek to claim, capture and twist their demonic counterparts and bring them in line with Maugrim's ever-narrow vision and ever-expanding ambition. FLickers, there, of the shadow, taking what he wants, jumping from point to point. His legend is truly being born, now, first amongst his own kind. The way he mutilates demonic flesh, tortures them, twists them.

Ah, the the source of the harmony is his chains, wrapped around his person. Seldan knew he was a chain-devil of some kind, but he's clearly one with an interest in music, be it the way his chains sound, or the screams he draws from his victims. ALl music to his ears, clearly.

That it is demons, having their own abhorrent tactics turned upon them, makes watching this not one whit easier. Seldan's fists clench, pushing firmly against the stone of the vault to keep them still, keep him from moving, remind him that he is still only an observer. Keep watching, he reminds himself firmly. Find the clues you seek.

In time, the devil's power grows and he becomes more esteemed, more confident. His name echoes on the lips of his followers: KINTRILAX.

That's a clue, right there, and a helpful one indeed. In time, he loses interest in his knife. Though it was his first, he becomes esteemed not just for his slaying and torturing, but for his ability to build: greater weapons, great works of devilish 'art', great spires of suffering erected in the name of suffering and art, a monument to the pain and suffering he seeks ever greater vistas of.

Such fame does not come without a price.

Called forth during the Demon Wars from his own time in the distant past, he is shattered by the blade of a Celestial, whose burning gaze takes only grim satisfaction in the chance to slay him. He is able to survive the thunderous attack of a servant of the Gods but loses his blade hand in the process.

... and his blade. The celestial, somehow familiar to Seldan, turns back to the fight, disappearing into its own legend, it's role in the story played.

The devil too fades into the background. There is only the blade now.

The celestial's grim satisfaction echoes in Seldan's mind, and in his own thoughts, but again, it is a fleeting thing. Fists now driven into the stone to support him, he continues to watch, to observe. Kintrilax. That in itself is helpful. Now, how did this blade come to be where he found it? His mind searches for the hands that held it along the way. Was the Griever among its holders? How did it come to be freed from the Charnethi vault?

The blade is picked up, scavanged from a battlefield in the desperate days of the post demon wars world.

...from there, it is used to murder. And murder again. And murder again. The blade has developed a twisted sentience of its own from the shattered remnants of the souls comprising it. With each death, it's hunger for more grows until it begins overpowering the minds of those who take it and use it to deliver suffering without measure, a twisted reflection of the artistic deisgns of its once master. An echo.

... in time, it becomes known. Attempts are made to destroy it in the east by those who would consider themselves heroes, but to destroy it, they learn, would require either shattering it on the anvil from which it was once forged, or to its inverse, a celestial forge where a hammer comprised of divine light could be brought to bear on it, releasing the tormented soul fragments into the ether.

...such things were beyond them, and ultimately, it escapes their grasp to continue its own rampage ...

... in time, it is located by those who simply turn it over to a government they trust:

... the Dominion. It is locked away in a vault except for when the proper price is paid and blood is called for. It becomes weapon of assassination, understanding between those a clandestine operation in Charn and the blade is established. The service lets it do its business, and then sees it returned to the deepest of Charnish vaults, a mere whisper added to its legend again and again and again with a century of blood. Wars. The Crown Wars. And then ... silence. It's use it not seen. A great blind spot in its legend. Locked away for some reason.

... until it is called once again by a man, faceless and featureless in the legend, who to it.

"NO MORE LIES"

Again, Seldan is left at once disgusted and thoughtful at the information revealed. He is silent through the entire vision, fists driven into the stone next to him. His mind's eye is drenched in blood and suffering, and it is unlikely that he will sleep much tonight. Still, there is more information still to be had. A hammer of divine light? A thing to be researched, to be sure. Perhaps a petition to the right entity, does he but learn who might possess such a thing -

And then the last. No more lies. That has to be the Griever. But, try as he might, his face is hidden - but how? Still does the paladin not question it - his face is, after all, equally hidden. But - his motivations? What does he seek? Questions that this blade cannot answer, of course. He knows that well, but that does not mean that such questions are on his mind.

Who is this man, then, that steals a deity's artifacts, to slay a god and seek to frame another for the deed? Why so many, and why those? What means he to do?

Clearly, he wishes no legend for himself. The magic recoils from him, in that sense. He is not someone of myth and legend: these things are but as lies to him.

There will be truth.

He takes the blade, then, and unchains it once more, setting it into the world to hunt the followers of Taara.

End them. End the little lying Goddess' minions.

That the magic recoils from him, himself, says much to Seldan. A man who will suffer none but his truth to exist. A tyrant.

There is much more to be learned here, but possibly not from the blade. Unless -

He turns his thoughts and attention to a hammer of divine light. Who or what among the celestials might possess the means to destroy this blade? he thinks to himself.

There is an image: that angel. The familiar one.

... how familiar? Hard to say. But it is. For some reason.

Unsure even why any particular angel would be familiar to him, Seldan is silent, pondering the image shown. Without a name, to attempt such a spell on that being would likely take weeks, and yet - clearly, there is some connection there. To me, perhaps? Even the thought seems arrogant to him.

In the end, though - even a name might give him a place to begin. Who is this mighty angel, who took Kintrilax's hand?

The spell doesn't know -- it's name isn't associated with the legend of the blade.

... just that a 'mighty being of divine power slashed the hand of the demon off'.

Still, there are yet ways to find the answer he seeks.

That is unsurprising, and so Seldan, with a sigh, releases the spell, taking his time in returning out of the trance-like state. He looks up, and releases his fists from where he'd driven them into the stone to steady himself. At once disturbed and thoughtful, he gets to his feet and backs away from the weapon, still breathing deeply to steady himself.

When he has come back to himself, he continues to wear that at once disturbed and soberly thoughtful demeanor. "The ward follows me, not the dagger," he warns the others. "None should touch it. It is forged of tormented souls, and has taken on a sentience of its own, one that delights in murder and suffering. I must seek more knowledge, but it is possible to destroy it, and that do I mean to do. Until then guard it well."

GAME: Seldan rolls knowledge/history: (4)+17: 21