>>6218557You were Tristain d’Rusalka, and you were not about to be intimidated by some stupid sword. You grab Mystletainn by the sheath and yank it out of Elric’s hands. Instinctively, you brace for the worst, clutching every bone in your body as you expect to be assaulted by some sort of malevolent, unseen psychic force. Only…
Nothing happens.
“...Are you alright?” Elric asks you.
>“Huh? Yeah. Guess I just spaced out.”“Were you thinking about Nadi-oww!”
>You slap Elric upside the head. “Shut up. Don’t repeat that to anyone, got it? I’ll be back with your sword as soon as I’m done showing it to her.” “O-okay.” Elric moans, rubbing his head. You take one last look at the boy before turning your back on him. He certainly doesn’t appear any different without the sword in his possession. You half expected him to lunge at you, snarling and foaming at the mouth. But he looks to be the same plain dork that he was supposed to be. Now was as good an opportunity as ever. With Mystletainn clutched firmly in your hands, you begin walking towards Nadia’s tent, which is all the way on the other side of your party’s makeshift camp.
As you begin your short trek, you find your mind wandering to peculiar thoughts, each of which have to do with the blade you now hold. Morfis was an ancient land full of history and secrets, and you had no doubt this sword was one such mystery. You cannot help but wonder as to its origins, as well as its original wielder. If a shrimp like Elric could slice through opponents like butter with Mystletainn, then whoever the blade first belonged to must have been a true terror. Visions of what such a man must have looked like begin to play in your head.
You envision a village on fire. A figure stands before you, but his face is obscured by darkness, and you are unable to get a glimpse of his features through the murky shadows that surround him. Piles of corpses are scattered about. Some of them are warriors, dressed in primitive looking armor, with shattered weapons laying about. Others are what appear to be noncombatants. Women and children are amongst the piled mounds of flesh, indicating that none were spared this man’s wrath. Every so often, a warrior will appear as if out of hiding, charging the wielder of Mystletainn with a battle cry. Yet with a mere flick of his wrist, his opponents find themselves cut into pieces, blood spraying out like geysers.
People from all over the desert would come to worship this man, throwing themselves at his feet. Their reverence comes not from love or devotion, but from fear. Fear that if they do not dedicate themselves to this “god”, that they too will find themselves devoured by his insatiable appetite for death.
This would continue on for generations. Until one day, someone even more frightening would appear.
