Windpanguss
08-26-2006, 04:27 PM
a rust-pitted heavy gornar falchion (show/look)Scored by years, perhaps centuries, of abusive neglect and strenuous violent application, the remnant of this ancient sword is if anything more dangerous now with its coating of rust and jagged scars. Attempts have been made to clean away the layers of crusted filth, but dried black rivulets trail away from the wounds where grinding wheels have sliced deep into the gornar, as if the blade itself had bled. You also notice a small enchanter's glyph.
It is 3x with vibe flares but I was wonder if it did anything else cause of this long loresong and what it might be worth or where it came from.
You sing:
"Falchion
Tell me your pourpose be bold and told"
As your voice focuses into the falchion, it seems to expand and envelop you. Blazing flares of light condense and then resolve into a vision.
Gouts of flame and fluid pierce the clouds of smoke on the battlefield, randomly flying from the raging melee stretched before you. The curtain of combatants parts, a channel opening through the bloody fray which you are propelled through. Hewing necks and limbs like errant blades of grass, gliding amidst the writhing warrior masses, your song of bloodlust keens with surging power and desire.
As the sensation of ripping through gorget into spine blurs and slowly fades, you open your eyes and intake a ragged breath.
You sing:
"Falchion
Tell me your magic be bold and told"
As your song focuses into the weapon in your hand, darkness seeps in from the corners of your senses. Sunbursts of light dance through the blackness and then resolve into a vision.
Wailing as your edge splits the air, the song made staccato by brief bites through armored foe, energy pulses from your pommel to point. Suddenly, the grip on your hilt loosens, your mighty slash falters, and you fall to the ground. Your wielder crumples beside you, lifeless, but there is no sadness. The dance must continue, but yet, there you lie. Stepped on, bled on from inflictions not of your blade, you blaze in furious need for the fray, until the blood-choked soil slows its pounding and silence reigns.
As the vision around you darkens and fades away, you open your eyes and intake a ragged breath.
You sing:
"Falchion
Tell me your history be bold and told"
As your voice focuses into the falchion, it seems to expand and envelop you. Blazing flares of light condense and then resolve into a vision.
The weakness of the grip that closes around your hilt is immediately apparent, and the hold is limp and clumsy. Your tip is thrust into the remains of a wooden shield a few times without skill or care, and then bypassing all ceremony you are hurled upon a cart loaded with less significant, passionless, armaments. You feel affronted, diminished, yet power and murderous thirst still project from your gornar, though no ear understands.
As the vision blurs and slowly fades, you open your eyes and intake a ragged breath.
You sing:
"Falchion
Tell me your special ability be bold and told"
As your song focuses into the weapon in your hand, darkness seeps in from the corners of your senses. Sunbursts of light dance through the blackness and then resolve into a vision.
Tied in rolls, stuffed in barrels, even hung upon a wall like a crucified traitor, time is less interpretable when you neglect your purpose. Passed from one unworthy palm to the next, your once keen edge dulling from insipid use as a tool or toy, you can still feel the patient surety that soon you will be recalled to your destiny.
As the vision blurs and slowly fades, you open your eyes and intake a ragged breath. Your hand feels damp and gritty on the grip of the falchion.
It is 3x with vibe flares but I was wonder if it did anything else cause of this long loresong and what it might be worth or where it came from.
You sing:
"Falchion
Tell me your pourpose be bold and told"
As your voice focuses into the falchion, it seems to expand and envelop you. Blazing flares of light condense and then resolve into a vision.
Gouts of flame and fluid pierce the clouds of smoke on the battlefield, randomly flying from the raging melee stretched before you. The curtain of combatants parts, a channel opening through the bloody fray which you are propelled through. Hewing necks and limbs like errant blades of grass, gliding amidst the writhing warrior masses, your song of bloodlust keens with surging power and desire.
As the sensation of ripping through gorget into spine blurs and slowly fades, you open your eyes and intake a ragged breath.
You sing:
"Falchion
Tell me your magic be bold and told"
As your song focuses into the weapon in your hand, darkness seeps in from the corners of your senses. Sunbursts of light dance through the blackness and then resolve into a vision.
Wailing as your edge splits the air, the song made staccato by brief bites through armored foe, energy pulses from your pommel to point. Suddenly, the grip on your hilt loosens, your mighty slash falters, and you fall to the ground. Your wielder crumples beside you, lifeless, but there is no sadness. The dance must continue, but yet, there you lie. Stepped on, bled on from inflictions not of your blade, you blaze in furious need for the fray, until the blood-choked soil slows its pounding and silence reigns.
As the vision around you darkens and fades away, you open your eyes and intake a ragged breath.
You sing:
"Falchion
Tell me your history be bold and told"
As your voice focuses into the falchion, it seems to expand and envelop you. Blazing flares of light condense and then resolve into a vision.
The weakness of the grip that closes around your hilt is immediately apparent, and the hold is limp and clumsy. Your tip is thrust into the remains of a wooden shield a few times without skill or care, and then bypassing all ceremony you are hurled upon a cart loaded with less significant, passionless, armaments. You feel affronted, diminished, yet power and murderous thirst still project from your gornar, though no ear understands.
As the vision blurs and slowly fades, you open your eyes and intake a ragged breath.
You sing:
"Falchion
Tell me your special ability be bold and told"
As your song focuses into the weapon in your hand, darkness seeps in from the corners of your senses. Sunbursts of light dance through the blackness and then resolve into a vision.
Tied in rolls, stuffed in barrels, even hung upon a wall like a crucified traitor, time is less interpretable when you neglect your purpose. Passed from one unworthy palm to the next, your once keen edge dulling from insipid use as a tool or toy, you can still feel the patient surety that soon you will be recalled to your destiny.
As the vision blurs and slowly fades, you open your eyes and intake a ragged breath. Your hand feels damp and gritty on the grip of the falchion.