View Full Version : To Forge & To Farrow
To Forge And To Farrow
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A thread detailing the formation of a new sword for Arden, using the components in his profile (http://www.althanas.com/world/showthread.php?22939-The-Blood-amp-Guts-(Level-Three)) and the Rheilhand and his daggers.
Please deduct an appropriate amount of gold from the spoils and personal coffers of Arden for the labour and materials, and for the effort to enchant the blade as request.
The thread refers to events from A Fake Empire Falling (http://www.althanas.com/world/showthread.php?23601-A-Fake-Empire-Falling-(Closed)&highlight=A+Fake+Empire+Falling) and In Death's Image Remade (http://www.althanas.com/world/showthread.php?23413-In-Death-s-Image-Remade-(Closed)).
He comes, like soldered winter,
Clad in twilight shine,
Walking through the ether fold,
He runs through solemn rain.
With shining blade, in moonlit folds,
He wanders castled plains,
Without thought or without deeming,
He comes to claim such souls.
Who is the person behind the robes?
That taints mankind with icy breath,
Of course, he alone knows,
His aim is life and his name is Death.
Cydney Oliver.
Arden was triumphant, resplendent, tired and decadent. His last month’s endeavour had seen him fight dragons and do battle with his demons. The last week had seen him strike out against the Scara Brae Knights Provost, and the last night had seen him do battle with a bottle of almond scented ambrosia gin and now, he lived, barely, to deal with the aftermath. Standing over a small, fiery forge in the heart of the Scara Brae docklands, however, did not seem like a celebration.
He lifted the heavy hammer into the stagnant and dusty air once more, sweltering with a rush of blood to the head in the heat and twilight of the blacksmith’s hut. Dawn was behind him, shining on his shoulders like a warm and welcoming friend, and before him, lay his life’s ambition, half-formed, white hot and tantalising the swordsman with a promise of power and malice the likes of which he had only dreamt of until now.
In the heat of this forge, at the turn of midnight, Arden had smelted down his blade, the Rheilhand and poured the remnants into a smelting pot. He had tempered the mould for the blade with the blood of all those he had claimed as a Hound in the Scourge and as a defender of Scara Brae; binding the steel with crimson flecks of experience. With ancient words he spoke off triumph, condemnation and sorrow at the death he had dealt and the ignorance he had done the dealing with. Some had fallen to his greed, an insatiable appetite born from the oni’s heart he possessed, a curse of his father’s ancestry.
Others had simply had to die through the natural progression of time, hierarchy and evolution. Those he had felt less virtuosi about, those, he might just be able to forgive himself for. Each sample had been drawn into the hilt and pommel of his daggers and single-edged blade, and vacated into the large repository of collected artefacts named Wainwright’s Reliquary. The collection kept the troupe’s theatre house safe, excluding all those whose blood resided in the red cloth and archaic circle of chalk well away from the walls of the Prima Vista.
There was a greater need for the blood now, a legacy had to be fulfilled, a destiny realised, muscles developed and sacrifices made one last time in the name of hard labour and perseverance.
“In blood and guts,” he cried as the hammer fell, sparking against the white hot blade held in his left hand, wrapped at the hilt with thick shimmy leather so that his fingers were not removed from his hands in gout of flame and anguish.
“In honour and truth,” he continued, the words of his forefathers brought the taste of blood to the tip of his tongue and the pang of iron on bone to his fangs, unseen behind a dry, curled smile on his lips.
“In memory and loss,” he lifted the hammer again, and rained a flurry of blows against the tip of the sword so that the metal began to flatten.
He turned it between each chain strike, so that the white hot metal became yellow slowly beneath the cooling weight of the hammer. It looked like a carnal, Orkish blade now, but in a few hours, perhaps by morning if he remained as zealous in his endeavour, it would begin to resemble the blade of old that had once been wielded against the Great Oni, the gods of Akashima themselves. It had been Arden that had wielded it, in a lifetime centuries before this one. He felt the annuls of history streaming into his memories with each blow, as if the ritual of reconstructing his former blade was reawakening his mind to the deeds he had done and the heroism he had displayed before such a mighty fall.
“My heart, my hearth, my soul and shield, I commit them to the flames and to the blood I yield.”
A flash of light sprang from his lips, tainted with a red hue that gave the edifice of his magic a pink flourish for just a brief short lived moment. It struck the blade, and settled into the half-molten metal as if it were meant to be. A rush of energy ran up the swordsman’s arm, and he was satisfied with that he could consider the first of many enchantments were bound to the dragon steel.
Into the slag he had ground the fragments of stars, dragon’s blood, smashed glass and a sheet of vellum inscribed with all the transgressions he had committed in the name of his forbidden magic. Whilst that testament was not part of the smiting process, it was a memento and a way for Arden to settle a few ghosts to eternal rest in the process. He had almost shed a tear as the paper had burst into flames, gone in a second into the mixture.
“That looks good son,” a gruff voice interrupted Arden’s concentration.
Without turning away from his endeavour, Arden knew it was Kinsley, the smith, an old friend both of his and the troupe’s. In his flames and with his experienced, steady hand many of the troupe’s weapons were forged and keened to a sharp, piercing edge. Duffy’s daggers, the now infamous Tooth and Nail had been brought from the very same man decades ago, so legendary were they amongst the street runners and corner gangs by now Kinsley had had to resort to crafting replicas.
“It is coming along well my friend; perhaps you might lend your wisdom to the matter?” He glanced over his shoulder to smile, before he let another flourish of blows temper each side.
“You are crafting a weapon of immense power and magical aptitude Arden; I am afraid all I have taught you is all I can teach you. The blade will be well formed, workable, fine and sharp – whatever it is you are doing to it beyond the basic rudimentary skills I have taught you is far, far beyond anything I know.” The gruff voice continued to drip like a landslide from the old man’s lips. Though aged, Kinsley had muscles in his upper arms that were vastly out of proportion both to the rest of his body, and to his kind heart and friendly nature.
“You do me a kind service with your words Master Kinsley, but the enchantment I am writing into this blade is not the concern. I feel as if the blood and the elements I have added to reinforce the blade to hold the magic I wield will corrupt the steel weaken it, and shatter it with a misplaced blow. How should I fold it, with glass and crystal and star’s boon within?” It was a tactile enough question; one Arden hoped would soften the man’s mood and defences. However modest Master Kinsley was, he was not called a Master for nothing.
There was more, and Blank’s way with words would make sure it came to light.
Kinsley strolled into the forge proper, stopping on the opposite side of the stone circle in which the coals and embers glowed. The overhanging vent, which dragged the smoke up into the twin chimneys which sat atop the forge cut the tip of his head off from Arden’s sight, but from the humming and sighing the swordsman knew he was dancing a delicate dance.
“To fold steel, one simply works it until his own knuckles are raw.” A rudimentary skill even an amateur knew, Arden retorted, though only in his mind as he hammered harder and harder still. He stopped every few rotations to allow Kinsley to speak, giving him time to think over his request, to find an answer, to reveal a secret.
“What about glass and crystal?” He guided.
“I think to fold this blade so that it remains as solid as star steel; you will have to fold it as you are, stopping when the metal dulls to heat it once more until it is as white as the star the shard came from.”
“Would that not in fact weaken it, dulling it to brittle iron at best?” Arden raised an eyebrow. He did not want his annum of work to be undone by a foolish mistake.
“Perhaps, but to strengthen, you must first weaken.” From the greasy muscles and from behind the white beard of Scara Brae’s premier craftsman, the words took on an air of mystery even Arden couldn’t help but feel awed and intrigued by. Metaphors were not the swordsman’s strong point by any stretch of the imagination. “Temper it just once that should settle it.” He nodded, “just once more than normal.”
Arden couldn’t disagree with the man, so he lifted the cooling blade and drove it back into the flames of the forge. The sound of embers crumbling beneath the weight of the metal accompanied a dancing array of sparks which rose on thermals up into the chimney and out into the night sky as soot and ash. He didn’t think it would be so easy, but then again, after everything he had been through to collect the components he required to forge the blade as he had envisioned it, it had been a monumental undertaking.
Both men stared at the forge in silence, their tongues licking lips moist to prevent the cracking skin effect that marked a man as a smith or apprentice alongside the bulging muscles and coal dust odour.
“Tell me, what brings you hear tonight Arden? There have been ample opportunities for you to use the forge when I was asleep, out of town, tending to the farriers hearth or the Queen’s personal guard…why chose to come here when you knew,” Kingsley prodded a finger at the back wall, where several spears were propped up against the brick work, “I would be sharpening the Knight Provost’s gauche…”
Arden could only chuckle.
“I see you still don’t miss a single trick, do you old friend,” the flash of green from the old man’s eyes was sparkle and answer enough for the swordsman, who wrenched the white hot sword free of the fiery tomb and let it drop onto the well beaten anvil. The intensity of its heat warmed his calves, which were dangerously close and getting a tan from his endeavour.
“I may be a blacksmith now, Arden, but I retain a few irons in non-forge based fires.”
Which was true enough, everyone knew Master Kingsley had strong ties with the Guilds-man Circle and darker and seedier organisations still. It paid in Scara Brae to be well networked with the power bases. Every power base except the palace was in Kingsley’s pockets. The man who made the finest weapons after all could afford the finest luxuries and securities there was on offer.
“Why do you think I’m here, then?” Arden’s lacquered torso and sodden hair glistened in the dark as the motion of his hammering jostled his limbs. He was beginning to tire, a fatigue highlightened by the growing hunger in his stomach and on the tip of his tongue. He needed mead, bread and blood before too long.
“I have heard rumours of a murder in the tavern north of here…a Knight Provost Commander shot, with witnesses. Far too many witnesses for it to be either a coincidence or a spur of the moment brawl…” The stern yet subtle threat in Kingsley’s voice, coupled with the puckered lips told Arden all he needed to know about how careful he had to proceed. Though it would be difficult to lose the Master’s favour, he did not wish to try his luck tonight.
“The Scourge wished itself known once more on the streets, and as the Hound, something I never hide from view, it was my duty to bark the loudest I could to make it so.”
“Your master’s bidding bidden well, I take it?”
It was no secret to Arden that Kingsley and Lamar, the Master of the Scourge were old friends. He had never been brave enough, despite his entire swagger to enquire as to how such men had become acquainted, but from the menagerie of scars both men possessed on their chests, arms and shins, he had assumed a period of time in the military, and left it at that.
“I do only as I am told, like a loyal servant, a willing pet at a man’s heel.”
“A dangerous game,” the smith shifted his weight and pushed his body forwards, free of the wall. “I hope you are well versed in the rules to keep playing it Arden, I really do. Too many people know who you are for your infamy to keep you shielded for long.”
“I have no life to lose to be afraid, Master, my family is the same. What I am afraid of, however, is the retribution of the palace on the common folk. If our gambit is unsuccessful, then the people of Scara Brae, the very people we try to protect from the corruption of the Empire will only find themselves falling on harder and darker times than ever before.” Arden spoke freely, knowing the Master to be trustworthy beyond doubt. He did not need to fear the Master’s speaking of what he had said, because the words he was speaking were from the Lamar’s mouth itself.
“I have to say I was surprised, the first time I heard what Lamar was planning to do.”
Arden turned the blade and resumed his hammering, tempering the tip until it dulled to red, orange then black. The sword was beginning to take shape, and he smiled with thanks at the Master’s advice. One extra scouring and one extra treatment was solidifying the metal well, and he could begin to see it’s curved, single-edged form call to him from behind a masquerade of misshapen ugliness.
“You are not alone in that sentiment, I can assure you,” the swordsman roared over the noise.
“You don’t think it wise?” Kingsley raised an eyebrow in question, before he turned to collect the first of the pole-arms. Each month, he sharpened the entire armoury of the Knights Provost, four hundred partisans, seven hundred swords and many hundreds more daggers, axes and strange weapons of the ancient order he had never remembered the names of. Each was lovingly cared for by its owner as a matter of religious principle, but few of the Knights knew how to truly grind an edge against a whetstone so that it spoke of its keenness to the stars above.
Arden thought it was very wise, and very ingenious. The Scourge had for so long been a ruthless, cutthroat organisation, a murderous group of savages sick and twisted with the power their symbols and superstitious afforded them. They had bested the city guard decades ago, and run riot, quite literally on occasion through the streets of his fair home. When that threat had grown so much that the Tantalum troupe became threatened by it, he had been thrown into the conflict between the Scourge, guard and Thieves’ Guild head first.
He had found something quite to the contrary of what he had been led to believe.
“Lamar is a wise man, but I don’t think he can remain unmolested for long. If he continues to make the Scourge an example of how rebellion and freedom and principle can save a city, whilst still relying on a crime of sorts to prop up its operations, then it’s only a matter of time before somebody puts an end to him.”
“A person besides you, I take it you mean?” Kingsley had his back turned to Arden, busy setting the partisan’s large blade against the stone and adjusting the pedal so that he could press it standing. He hated sitting for long hours, as the aches in his lower spine could testify.
“Ha, it is tradition for the second in command of the Scourge, the Hound, to cut the throat of its master when the time is right I know, but I fear that pleasure won’t be mine.” That truth was something Arden would be disappointed with.
“Who would attempt for the life of the Master, especially as I myself have not been able to get an audience with him since spring…seven months ago,” Kingsley’s remorseful tone told Arden that he had been wrong to ever question the man’s loyalties – his friendship with Lamar was more potent than he had expected. The sparks that kicked off from the blade as the smith started to grind left after lights in the air, streaks of bright white prosperous energy.
“He is playing a cautious game, despite my doubts.”
“A golden king in a golden hall with no one to see him might as well be a pauper, though. Do you not think that the isolation of the Scourge is precisely why people still think it’s a band of murderous vagabonds and sycophantic necromancers?”
Arden looked hurt.
“Sycophantic is a bit harsh.”
“You know what I mean boy.”
Arden nodded.
“Perhaps our image and our cause would be better received and supported if the truth were made known.” Arden sighed, and stopped his hammering to catch his breath.
He plucked the sweaty rag he had tucked into his sash from its secure knot and wiped his brow with it. It smelt of grease and mead and piss and vomit – years of mopping up the shelves and bodily parts of the foundry’s eager labourers. Cleanliness was not a matter to discuss or keep in high regard when the forge was lit.
“It is not as easy as that though,” Kingsley interjected.
The bath Arden longed for and lavender scent came later, when the work was done and muscles hamstrung.
“I know that, I really do.”
“Then tell that to Lamar, make him realise that assassinations and challenges to an order as powerful as the Knights Provost is going to end…badly.”
“Kingsley,” Arden clenched his teeth, realising his mistake too late to correct it. “Forgive me,” he looked away from the Master’s glare. “Master, I think you hold the Provost in too high regard and the Scourge too low. What power do they have in this city?”
A decade ago, or perhaps a century ago, Kingsley might have been able to recount the lavish tales of the Knights Provost and their great many deeds. They had been the ones to quash the Molyneux Rebellion five centuries ago, restoring peace to the island and forging a lasting treaty between the last of the Innari Nobility and the Sorcerer Molyneux himself. Arden viewed that event as racial hatred and slavery, so would take no stock in it even if the Master called it from the history books to serve as an example now.
“I…” Kingsley slurred after several minutes of awkward silence.
He resumed his work, and the sound of scraping stone on metal and hammering blows reigning once more down on a tempered blade filled the twilight of the forge. The red lights on the walls danced as the embers glowed, and the night sky, obsolete beneath a full moon’s radiance turned darker as the hours grew later and later.
The hours blurred into nothingness, and both men worked alone, even in close proximity to one another. Despite their conflict of interests, every now and then Kingsley looked over his shoulder to nod approvingly at the handiwork of his apprentice. Arden remained resolute and focussed, despite his fatigue, too engrossed in the swell of power and potential he felt in the pit of his stomach every time he struck the blade. Each blow was a call to arms, a rallying, clarion cry that would boon him with a blade as old as Akashima itself.
The Greater Oni would suffer.
“Oh this is silly, Master, I appreciate you have stronger ties with the Provost than with the troupe, but I would never jeopardise your relationship with any other body in the city.” Arden dropped the hammer to the dirt, and clanged the blade, now cooled and shaped to the anvil’s altar. As far as hammering was concerned, he was done, nine hours later and many meals burnt into muscle and strain.
Kingsley set the partisan in his hands against the wall, and counted how many he had sharpened. Two hundred was good enough.
“No doubt exists in my mind that my interests in the city are secured, Arden. I simply wish to understand why the Scourge would choose to start a war with the Provost, when there are so many other corrupt institutes in the city you could topple.”
That statement to Arden sounded almost like an admission that the Master knew the Provost was corrupt. He wondered just how involved he really was with the events of the civil war in Radasanth. If he knew the Queen had sundered the coffers of the city to fund the Emperor’s attempts for tyranny in his homeland, then what else did he know?
“The Guilds-man Circle is doing a good enough job of destroying itself…the City Guard are relatively untouched by the diplomatic quagmire of bullshit in the palace, and dare I say that the criminal elements of our fair island exist in two places…the Scourge, and we can hardly fight ourselves, and the Thieves’ Guild…” He smiled warmly.
He had seen to the Thieves’ Guild personally. Van Mandelo had caused a catastrophic explosion of excess within the ranks of the council, and blood had been spilt day after night and through to a new day after the oath both men had taken. It was wondrous what immortality and madness could do to a man given the world to rule.
“The Thieves’ Guild is of no concern to us.”
Kingsley wobbled his head between a nod and a shake, agreeing but through reservation that he wasn’t going to change his apprentice’s mind.
“Well, if you will take my advice in that regard, at least settle for one last piece of wisdom about that,” he picked up another partisan, and from the back wall, he gestured with the steel tip towards the blade resting on the anvil.
“I see you brought a pommel and hilt with you, this is good – it means you have selected the mechanism, material and correct grip to suit…”
“What of it?” Arden reached into his pocket and retrieved the hilt and length off red leather he would use to wrap about the handle.
“Attach it before engraving and enchanting the blade – that way, the resonating energies of the blade are tied, like a twin to the hilt and pommel. You should finish a blade when it is finished, and not build on top of old magic and ritual.”
It had been the swordsman’s intention to complete the ritual of binding before he wrapped the hilt, so he had to question Kingsley’s reasoning.
“Might I ask why it is improper to do it in reverse?”
“It is simply the way it is done, is that good enough? If you do this, I will bless it with the seal of Valeena and that is as much a boon as a sword can get on this island.”
Arden nearly jumped over the flames to embrace the man with a hug of thanks. For a sword to be given the blessing of Master Kingsley was truly an honour – it would give the blade of blood an even greater prominence in the world; another title to sing, another name to cry on the winds.
“That is more than enough reason and incentive,” he picked up the darning needle, pincers and chisel that rested on the workbench behind him and pulled up a stool. He sat, and felt the weight on his shoulders fly away.
The sound of a grindstone broke the momentary bliss, and with another wipe of the cloth on his brow, and a smudge of oil down the bridge of his nose, Arden proceeded to complete the sword, pinning, bracing and pouring blood over the joints of the blade from a nick in his finger he cut with the sharper edge of the well-worn and rusty chisel.
By first morning’s light, the sword would be ready, polished, gleaming and glowing with an inner light.
With it, The Scourge would drink of a thousand souls, and through its power, Akashima, the Tantalum and Scara Brae would be free.
Liberation had come to the Silent Swordsman’s hands, and its name was <Kerria>.
Spoils:
Items Lost:
The Rheilhand: A single edge sword with a slight curve and weighted disposition to the hilt, allowing for tight and controlled spiralling thrusts and for fighting at close quarters in the streets. It is forged of steel but its shape and slender design gives it the strength of iron and a value somewhere between the two – not that a blade as important as this would ever be sold. It was once the relic of the Scourge’s leader, but unbeknown to Blank, the sword was originally his father’s; a twist of fate yet to be revealed in the grant notion of the multiverses. If the sword was his father’s…then perhaps his father is in the city, and perhaps he will one day learn of his silence, of what he witnessed that stole his passion away.
Orichalos & Gerhard: Two master-work iron daggers with twin blades. They are polished with steel dust, to give a shimmer, and are light weight and able to penetrate armour to deliver a small bleeding wound, as opposed to anything fatal. They are fashioned in the style of the House of Janelle and possess minor enchantments which gather blood into vials hidden in the hilt, and purify blood drawn of any oni or undead taint. He has activated them by taking his brother's blood. Any further updates will be requested as spoils or confirmed by the Realm of Greeting staff before being used against another player.
Blood of the Fallen: A small vial containing a sample of blood from Ace Lawrence, his mother, his brother and his own flesh. These have many uses, but are mainly for use in Blood Arcana rituals.
The Bloodied Rose: An eternally vibrant rose stained thick with Blank's own blood. It is missing a petal, and has no other properties besides an enchantment to prevent it from withering. It can be destroyed, but is otherwise devoid of monetary value.
Components to Make a Sword: A Vellum Sheet: Thirty centimetres by fifteen.
Glass Rod: Three feet long. Steel Ore: House brick size. Red Leather: Four feet by four. Dragon’s Blood: One Small Vial. Kunai with Chain: Made of steel. Comet Shard.
Item Gained:
Kerria, the First - The Undying Rose
Kerria is a red hilted blade, forged with steel, bound in blood and brought to semi-sentient life through blood arcana. It is as strong as mithril, biting just the same, even though it is a steel ore. It has a small loop on the butt of the pommel to attach a kunai and chain, and a polished appearance as if it were eternally clean. Whenever it is bloodied in battle, the blood on the blade draws into the hilt as if the sword were gorging itself on the life essence. Such blood channels into the glass rod in the pommel, and provides the wielder with one charge for use in casting blood magic spells per dedicated, effective strike.
The blade possess the same properties as it's father blades.
Wounds caused by the blade are resistant to healing magic, and the wounded find themselves suspiciously hurt and bleeding much more than they should be if the sword has already tasted the target's blood (the sword can be anointed if blood is acquired prior to use).
The sword itself is unbreakable or non-tarnishable by non magical means - spells, other magic weapons and items with magical properties, such as dragon scale, will still effect it very much as if it were mundane steel. It is a very conductive material, and can be further enchanted and blessed and given powers through blood magic, though such enchantments must come from blood magic itself.
Sagequeen
01-29-12, 07:02 PM
Plot Construction ~ 23/30
This was richly done. Your narrative hook effectively draws the reader into what it took to assemble this weapon, and does so with wit and well-managed words.
If I have one criticism, it's in post 4. Kinsley's advice seemed a little shallow to me. I suppose I can take it on faith that Arden respects the man so deeply he'd go against everything he knows (and you said as much), but for me, the exchange fell a little flat. Perhaps this is because you ask the reader to simply assume instead of giving the reader the same feeling with evidence:
From the greasy muscles and from behind the white beard of Scara Brae’s premier craftsman, the words took on an air of mystery even Arden couldn’t help but feel awed and intrigued by.
However, for a short bazaar quest, that's almost nitpicking. You truly did a great job.
Characterisation ~ 24/30
You were successful in revealing your character without giant red flags stating “Hey. I'm revealing my character.” Instead, you revealed a little at a time, representative details that were well tied into, and relevant concerning, the action of the story.
I appreciated how you gave Kinsley an entire life and world; the only things I would desire more to know about him would serve no purpose here.
Writing Style ~ 25/30
A few mechanics errors were to be found, however nothing that too badly damaged the flow of my reading experience. You descriptiveness is lovely, and more importantly, your word choice is spot on.
Wildcard: 8/10
Total ~ 80/100
Blank earns 936 EXP
SPOILS:
Items Lost:
The Rheilhand: A single edge sword with a slight curve and weighted disposition to the hilt, allowing for tight and controlled spiralling thrusts and for fighting at close quarters in the streets. It is forged of steel but its shape and slender design gives it the strength of iron and a value somewhere between the two – not that a blade as important as this would ever be sold. It was once the relic of the Scourge’s leader, but unbeknown to Blank, the sword was originally his father’s; a twist of fate yet to be revealed in the grant notion of the multiverses. If the sword was his father’s…then perhaps his father is in the city, and perhaps he will one day learn of his silence, of what he witnessed that stole his passion away.
Orichalos & Gerhard: Two master-work iron daggers with twin blades. They are polished with steel dust, to give a shimmer, and are light weight and able to penetrate armour to deliver a small bleeding wound, as opposed to anything fatal. They are fashioned in the style of the House of Janelle and possess minor enchantments which gather blood into vials hidden in the hilt, and purify blood drawn of any oni or undead taint. He has activated them by taking his brother's blood. Any further updates will be requested as spoils or confirmed by the Realm of Greeting staff before being used against another player.
Blood of the Fallen: A small vial containing a sample of blood from Ace Lawrence, his mother, his brother and his own flesh. These have many uses, but are mainly for use in Blood Arcana rituals.
The Bloodied Rose: An eternally vibrant rose stained thick with Blank's own blood. It is missing a petal, and has no other properties besides an enchantment to prevent it from withering. It can be destroyed, but is otherwise devoid of monetary value.
Components to Make a Sword: A Vellum Sheet: Thirty centimetres by fifteen.
Glass Rod: Three feet long. Steel Ore: House brick size. Red Leather: Four feet by four. Dragon’s Blood: One Small Vial. Kunai with Chain: Made of steel. Comet Shard.
Item Gained:
Kerria, the First - The Undying Rose
Kerria is a red hilted blade, forged with steel, bound in blood and brought to semi-sentient life through blood arcana. It is as strong as mithril, biting just the same, even though it is a steel ore. It has a small loop on the butt of the pommel to attach a kunai and chain, and a polished appearance as if it were eternally clean. Whenever it is bloodied in battle, the blood on the blade draws into the hilt as if the sword were gorging itself on the life essence. Such blood channels into the glass rod in the pommel, and provides the wielder with one charge for use in casting blood magic spells per dedicated, effective strike.
The blade possess the same properties as it's father blades.
Wounds caused by the blade are resistant to healing magic, and the wounded find themselves suspiciously hurt and bleeding much more than they should be if the sword has already tasted the target's blood (the sword can be anointed if blood is acquired prior to use).
The sword itself is unbreakable or non-tarnishable by non magical means - spells, other magic weapons and items with magical properties, such as dragon scale, will still effect it very much as if it were mundane steel. It is a very conductive material, and can be further enchanted and blessed and given powers through blood magic, though such enchantments must come from blood magic itself.
GRANTED, with the exception of the blade's wounds being resistant to healing magic, as discussed.
Additionally, your request for:
...to allow a once per thread use of the sword to resurrect a PC the sword has drunken blood from (that blood must remain, and cannot have been used for spells in the meantime - such a resurrection must occur within one post or six hours of the victim's death. Such a rebirth will leave the revived haunted and possessed by an oni, which will have to be exorcised by a spirit warder, and they will be sickly and feeble until that occurs.
Granted, unless RoG says otherwise.
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