The Black Knight of Tyr: A Sword in the Mind's Eye

[Killthorne]

The sun flashed off the whirling longsword as the man in black spun the blade about him in tight, razor-edged circles. His eyes were closed, as they have been, recently in his practice, and his feet shifted below him, as his body twisted to the side quickly and back. He spun in a half-circle, the blade reversed in his hand and a wide arc of the blade cut out in front of him. He focused on his breathing, drawing slow breaths at a time to maintain endurance at the expenditure of his continual motion. He brought his sword up again, but this time in a defensive stance, his sword wavering about him to catch the attacks he saw in his mind. He feinted and parried left to right quickly, stabbing where a perceived opening was found.

He lunged forward in a hard strike, his footing advanced in a way where the opponent's balance would be shifted backwards. His eyes opened slightly at first, a slow smile stretched at his lips. Satisfied at his practice of the day, the sword was brought up and back at the sheath opening at his back, near his right shoulder. He wiped a a few beads of sweat from his face with his sleeve, and walked over to his nearby pack for a waterskin, drinking half of it's contents in large gulps.

His thoughts always fell on the sword after practice. It had been silent for years. It was once inhabited by an old paladin of Torm's spirit, but now, it was as any other sword. The taste for demon and devil flesh remained though, and even though the sword was not sentient anymore, the lingering magics ebbed for outsider blood. Malek's Revenge, it was named, for it sunk into Alicia Na Orcus years ago in defiance of her killing of his swordbrother Malek, the original wielder.

It was a fine sword. It had served Arakiel countless times in combat against the forces of evil he strived hard to defeat, but something bothered him. It wasn't enough.

His other sword was short and jagged, the make of a drow, with a webbed design wrapped about the handle, a carved spider and it's legs wrapped over the orb-like pommel end. He despised that sword, despite it's usefulness. Everytime he drew it without a mind in combat, he pictured the drow bitch that toyed with him and his family, and the words that came with such a gift on his wedding day. He pictured her tears at his wedding and clenched his jaw. Never again, would he offer a drow a moment's peace.

And so his thoughts cast upon a certain noble, dwarven smith of the Ironstars. Gorm Grimbeard, his good friend and the dwarf who gave up his life for the forging of the deadly-to-refine, and magically-enhanced Darksteel, made Arakiel smile softly, as his pride for the dwarf was hard to measure. The Forge Gorm worked, was a magical chamber where one could never leave once the toxins were inhaled, from when the metals mixed, were smelted into one. The trees above the Ironstar Halls that were killed and rotten, due to the toxic gases exhausted when the Forge was not fired, were a prime example of how deadly such a process was.

But Arakiel's thoughts became wonder. He had seen many of Gorm's works, and knew the dwarves skill in blacksmithy were unchallenged by many of the other races in Faerun. His swords current were strong and magical, but he had planned on wielding two longswords soon. He grinned as he thought on his discovered piece of adamantine ore, still yet to be refined. If Gorm could make darksteel, he could certainly refine adamantine. He needed a new sword, Arakiel nodded to himself subtly as he pondered, one that represented him more than anything. He would seek out his friend soon and ask, he thought, as he walked out from behind the Old Skull Inn...

~Killthorne~

[Mikayla]

Good writing Killi, I liked it. Of course, I also like the fact that my actions and that little drow raid on DD have not been forgotten to those that place. Nice to see that even after a thousand spawns, ALFA PCs have memories.

**Possesses Faeryl, struts off laughing.**