The Church of Kelemvor RP

[None]

In the dark winter night that followed, Elisia, Gaven, and the Guardian of the Ilmater Shrine could be seen leaving the graveyard with a woman in shackles. Her hair was short and dark, adorned in a dark iron armor. The gauntlets of the woman were shackled and chained as they made their way to the Flaming Fist. While this woman appeared to be in their custody for that time, the three were patient with her. They stopped when needed, and treated her well. While they could not abide by any of her protests, it was clear this was not what one would expect of an enemy. The tired Kelemvorite's empty expression was heavier then. For all of those that glimpsed the woman being taken in by the Flaming Fist, something was clear. This was not a march of a prisoner, it was a farewell for now for a friend.

After the woman had entered Fist custody, the three of them went their separate ways, and the tired despondent young woman sat before the frozen fountain where the vendors and artist had gone home for the night. There in silence she stared off the ice, back to a time where she didn't carry a familiar feeling. As the night turned into day, the snow dripped from her hood and past her face where she did not move. She never went home that night.

[Afendaria]

12 Alturiak 1362 DR

Over the next few days after the declaration that the Church of Cyric and worship of the Black Sun had been outlawed in Baldur’s Gate, a tired and grim-appearing Priestess Afendaria could be seen shuffling her way between various taverns and temples, constantly meeting and speaking with all sorts of individuals. Often she would end up in these places longer than she normally would allow herself to stay, but whatever she was discussing or talking over, she was persistent, gathering information and taking down notes, as if she was hunting for or determined to find something.

She had also started visiting the Flaming Fist Headquarters and had been going down into the anti-magic block during visitation hours, joining Elisia LeGande and Korwin Vhoss, two close fellow members of her faith who had been visiting a friend staying there for a few days already. Whoever they were seeing, they took up the entirety of all the visiting time they could, right up until the last second, ensuring that the one they visited with could not speak to anyone else, other friends or strangers alike.

Meanwhile, the dead scattered about in the Undercity’s winding caverns and walkways outside the ruined temple of Bhaal were slowly being collected. With permission granted to Afendaria and the Church of Kelemvor from their Graces, the remains of the Underctiy's dead were being moved to the Ossuary in the Shrine of Suffering. In a combined effort, Kelemvorites, Ilmatari, and other adventurers wishing to assist had started moving and preparing the dead for proper, final rest. Despite the plethora of rats and vermin that attacked them down in the Undercity, the Kelemvorites, adventurers, and Ilmatari would take their time to identify those they could by magical or mundane means and inform any of the dead's still living family and relatives about the end of their loved ones. Clerics from both faiths also offered final rites and dignity to all the dead they could not identify. Many skeletal and petrified remains lacked whole pieces, but even the bodies and bones that had been shattered and dismembered were also cared for with the utmost respect.

Work would take time, and many trips back and forth into the Undercity would occur over the next while. There were many dead, but slowly more of the deceased would find proper rest, those involved aiming for the dead to be placed right there in the Ilmatari Ossuary, other chapels' gravesites, buried elsewhere, or end up cremated.

[None]

Another day passes in the Flaming Fist prison. The same Kelemvorite as the day before remained quiet outside of the former Mortarch's cell. For the hour they spend together, Elisia is either seen watching the old stone floor or reading a book just out of arm's reach. Today she said not a word to the woman behind the bars unless spoken to. She remained lingering like a ghost. Perhaps in time, the Mortarch would come to understand her presence was more than a simple inconvenience, but the only comfort her friend could offer.

[Afendaria]

22 Alturiak 1362 DR

" I. . hate every.. rat . . on Toril. " - Afendaria to Nathaniel Collins.

It had been about a tenday, and work in the Undercity was nowhere near complete, but bodies of the deceased slowly began to filter their way up and out through the sewers and into the Shrine of Suffering, carried carefully by the hands Ilmatari, Kelemvorites, and volunteers alike.

Work was not easy, and the process was slow. Each body recovered was carefully wrapped in shrouds or other material for safe transportation after their remains had been covered in oils, fragrances, ointments and holy water depending on the dead’s age and state. Some of the dead were blessed on site, while other areas where many remains were discovered were often consecrated. Skeletal remains in pieces and shattered remnants of the dead were also treated with equal care.

On top of the winding, ruined tunnels which made carrying the dead even more cumbersome at times, there was also a constant myriad of rats that seemed to sneak up at points and small hordes of the hungry scavengers were often fought off by those more militant types that had joined the group collecting the dead. Ointment and medicine was requested from the Ilmatari to combat rat bites, and in case of disease be it from animal bite or through something the dead carried, the shrine also offered rest, recovery, and healing.

Miraculously, the area that most of dead were being retrieved from did not seem to be full of the vermin, though the odd corpse outside the area where the majority of dead had been pulled out from already surely had at some point met the rat hoard's voraciousness.

Between the ruins of the Undercity and the Shrine of Suffering there was also a section of sewer that those recovering the dead had to traverse through – many of the poor, beggars and outcasts who lived in their tents and lean-tos, fortunately did not interrupt the work at hand, seemingly preferring the company of the living, nor did those moving the dead interact with the destitute, both groups of people leaving each other be as worked progressed.

Within the Ossuary itself, clerics of both faiths were busy in both prayer and casting spells. Beyond slowly tending to and preparing each body through mundane means, spells and other methods were also employed to ensure anyone lost to the horrors that lurked in the Undercity could be identified. When they could, names, final rites and last wishes of the dead were noted, while the elements and causes of death was also taken down whenever discovered. Victims of crime and deceased criminals were also reported to the authorities when found while families of loved ones were notified of their late family members.

This process of gathering and preparing the dead for their final rites and rest however, would take time. Bodies took effort to wrap and get out from the depths of the city, followed by the lengthy task of further prep and the spells cast over the dead at the shrine. When it came to identifying the dead, clerics with their spells granted through prayer were only limited to call upon their divinely granted spells so many times per day. With the first tenday finished, there were still many dead in the Undercity and its ruins, and bringing the dead their final dignity would likely continue on for some time.

None of the dead would be forsaken, and the combined effort of the two faiths and the volunteers continued on into its second tenday.

[Afendaria]

29 Alturiak 1362 DR - Triel Becomes A Funeral Pyre

Work for the Kelemvorites and Ilmatari between the Undercity and the Shrine of Suffering continued on, though throughout the second tenday of the endeavour there were numerous interruptions that delayed some of their work. A strange incident involving some headless, single undead entity wrapped in barbed wire terrorizing the Heapside along with further reports of an odd and mysterious undead creature showing up in the Baldur’s Gate cemetery pulled some attention away from their tasks. Fortunately, despite the distractions, additional assistance in moving the dead up from the depths of the city came from a number of volunteers, including the strong Uthgardt Barbarian Alaric who created an impressive improvised sack out of a tent used to carry loose skulls, as well as the Triadic warrior known as Nathaniel Collins who managed to haul quite an impressive amount of bones out on his own.

Then, roughly halfway through the second tenday, Triel requested militant priestess Afendaria’s assistance to deal with a threat plaguing the village. Recalling how those of Triel had assisted in burying many of the dead in Winding Water the previous year, Afendaria answered the call. Unfortunately, disaster ultimately struck the village despite the efforts of many who joined in against the enemy threatening Triel. While villagers had been spared an early demise, many soldiers along with Triel itself went up in flames. Afendaria was able to perform a series of ritualistic chants known as the Lament for the Fallen for the soldiers who had perished in the hellish fires that tore the village apart. Although a burning Triel had become the slain soldiers’ pyre, and most of the dead were consumed in flames, a few bodies that had been spared from the inferno were found and wrapped in shrouds near a quarry. These dead were prepared and left behind for those of Triel or the Triad to bury or cremate following their own religious traditions.

After returning to Baldur’s Gate from Triel, work in the Undercity resumed, although an attempt by cultists of the Dark Sun to wreak havoc in the Wide during some sort of election and another assault near the Sea Tower District offered further distraction. Both attacks brought on by the Cyricsts seemed to have been foiled and two more bodies unrelated to the Undercity found their way into the Ilmatari ossuary, both taken in with care and treated with dignity.

Despite the grim task of constantly recovering the dead from the Undercity and having experienced the tragedy that befell Triel, Afendaria’s dreary, fatigued, and seemingly crestfallen state worn since earlier that month appeared to be improving. She had begun the mission in the Undercity looking tired and miserable, and yet, by the end of the second tenday of work, her demeanour had slowly seemed to be returning to what it once was.

[Afendaria]

7 Ches 1362 DR - Hellfire and Work's End.

Walking with her blue cowl wrapped around her lower arm, Afendaria moved slowly through the Heapside district, her destination being the Shrine of Suffering. Her gaze held an emotionless, cold expression, coupled with fatigue and a brow full of sweat. Off in the distance behind her, the smoldering remnants of what was once House Vale’s estate still billowed up into the air in grey plumes of smoke. She had heard the dragons and then screams, and then had seen the manor, twisted and torn, melted to ruin in that hellish fire.

While the Watch and other adventurers had scrambled about to maintain the otherworldly inferno that had quickly lapped up the estate, Afendaria had remained quiet and out of the way. She knew there was not much she could do, save pray. Pray that the new Lord of the Dead, Kelemvor would guide the souls of however many had met their early, fiery and brutal end within Lord Vale’s estate. Ignorant to the names and number of lives of those lost in that fire, she called for the Great Guide to shepherd their souls off to the afterlife, where they would find their new beginning. She did not linger long after her prayers, giving those scurrying about space to do their best in stifling the flames.

Now, passing through the alleyway behind the Shrine of Suffering, she tucked her blue cowl under a belt and began to open the grate leading down into the Ossuary, pausing only when she noticed a woman, sniffling and weeping off at the side. Afendaria turned towards her, pausing again when she heard the shuffling of feet making their way slowly and carefully up from the shrine. Stepping away, and dipping her head in silence, the Kelemvorite made room for some Ilmatari faithful, who had in their care a wooden coffin, housing one of the dead that they had found in the Underctiy’s temple of Bhaal. Eyeing the Broken God’s holy symbol that had been artistically carved into the coffin lid, Afendaria realized it must have been Ysolde Vann, one of the dead she managed to learn an inkling about through the Speak With Dead spell she and other clerics had been constantly casting and praying for in the past tendays. Lifting her head, she watched the procession, and the young crying woman approached the group with the casket.

“Mira.” Afendaria muttered to herself, recalling the name of the niece who had survived Ysolde. As the group wandered off down the alleyway with the coffin, Afendaria quietly wondered where the Ilmatari woman Ysolde would be buried. They had tried to bring her back, but few of the dead they had found could be resurrected. At least they could offer the deceased proper repose. Ysolde had wanted to be buried in a small plot with a gravestone, and Afendaria was sure that the Ilmatari carrying the casket away would see Ysolde buried properly.

Heading down into the depths of the Ossuary, Afendaria looked over the few remaining bodies that had been pulled out of that ruined temple. They had been prepared, but had not yet been claimed by family or other temples. After a brief look over, Afendaria made her way to a writing desk that was tucked away in the corner of the Ossuary. There, unraveled on the old wooden surface, sat her own work: names recorded of the corpses of those who had responded to their spells.

Her icy, tired gaze lowered to parchment, and quickly scanned over some of the recorded entries.

“Prina Duskhollow. May Kelemvor Guide their soul. Claimed she revered Mielikki above all other gods. Herbalist. Had a brother - Aldren Duskhollow, emigrated to Elturel, though current whereabouts unknown. No preferred method of burial.”

"Duskhollow may never receive family at her grave", Afendaria thought, ignorant in the funeral practices of Mielikki, "but at least the Mielikkian clergy, or druids, or whomever took care of her body, would offer finality."

She looked over another name.

“ Fernis Gravel. Great Guide keep them. No family. No preferred method of burial. Sweeper and refuse collector. No declared faith nor patron."

Faithless? Afendaria asked herself with a furrow of her brow, though she suddenly recalled finding a lucky trinket in the man’s clothing that had still clung to his dead body; a boar’s tooth. Luck? Would Tymora claim this one? Or would he meet the just and fair treatment of the Judge of the Damned? She was uncertain, but she sighed, knowing at least his remains were now in the best of care.

Scanning over a few more names, she paused abruptly as she read a particular entry that had struck her.

“ Halvren Moke. Unverified family. Burial. Cremation. Moneylender. Cyricist."

One of the corpses of the cultists that hated her and her faith had been recovered, and had responded to her spell. It surprised her immensely, for she had never expected the dead of those who so passionately hated Kelemvor in life to respond to one of Kelemvor’s clerics. She had guessed what Halvren was before the spell had been cast; his corpse had been one of the more fresh ones removed. Halvren had been marked with a damaged, dark tattoo of the black sun on his wrist. Perhaps Halvren had tried to scratch his tattoo off when Baldur’s Gate had banned the worship of Cyric? She was not sure, but she still tried to speak to his corpse, and surprisingly, had been answered.

Looking over her shoulder, she glanced down at Halvren’s corpse nearby, wrapped and anointed with holy water and oils. The dead man’s corpse had spoken to her through the spell, and had requested that he be “Buried where no one will find me”. But no. Cremation – she had crossed out burial after writing down the word. She would do it herself. It was dignified to cremate the dead, and she had no wish to let the man’s body of a banned faith sit anywhere in the city, especially after knowing what that wicked god Cyric had his followers do to their own dead.

Afendaria rolled up then tied a cord around the scroll and then rested her hand upon it for a quiet moment, the cool stillness of the Ossuary settling around her like a long awaited silence. The past three tendays had been filled with sorrow, danger, and the grim labor of listening to the voices of the dead, yet now the work was finished. Many souls they had drawn from that ruined temple of Bhaal had been given a name, a prayer, and the promise of dignity in death. That was enough. A small, weary breath left her lips, and for the first time in many days a faint hint of peace softened the hard lines of her expression. Kelemvor had guided them through the darkness, and she had done her part with the others involved. With the dead now entrusted to proper rest, Afendaria rose from the desk and gathered her things. The city above would continue its noise and turmoil, and with seemingly no further threat from this Hellfire Wyrm, wherever it had flown off to, she would return home, lay down her burdens, and rest - content that when dawn came, she could return not to mass death and ruin, but to the simpler, quieter duties as a servant of the Great Guide.

Or at least, that is what she hoped for.

After writing a brief missive meant to be delivered to Their Graces, and informing the Ilmatari that she was done working in their Ossuary, she waited for someone to come and help her carry Halvren's wrapped up corpse away.

//Thank you DM Smile for the randomly generated names / information for the dead mentioned in this post, and thanks for being a DM on BGTSCC!

[None]

There in the early hours of the morning, the slender silhouette of a local Kelemvorite finds her way back to the Joiner’s Shop. A light yawn passed through her as she set her tools on the workbench. The dark robed woman guided a deep leather apron over her head, and tied it behind her back. Elisia began her usual routine by checking on the two "twins" fighting in the other room. While their arguments could be intense, neither of them would require the services of the Lord of the Dead that day.

Elisia moved into her work place, and set in the final nails in the coffins to reinforce what was mostly already built. The patient faithful completed what other tasks they had for her that day, and finished the day sweeping the shop. One small pile at a time, she collected the saw dust and stray nails. Though each task was modest, she tended to them with a quiet, patient devotion, as if even the smallest duty deserved her unwavering attention.

The Kelemvorite continued on visiting each of the mortuary guild, and took on any necessary tasks they had for the day. When she was finished, the devoted woman could be seen in the cemeteries where she visited the graves. A lantern was left at one, where she stood for quite some time in the spring rain. Her hands were pressed together in prayer and her head low. She remained there for most of the evening until she disappeared past the cemetery gates outside of the city.

[Afendaria]

21 Tarsakh 1362 DR

After finishing her work with the Ilmatari in the Undercity and then taking care of some business in Amn, Afendaria had returned to mostly being on her lonesome when performing many of her duties. She had spoken to few of the living, exchanging words with only those who approached her with matters of faith, the Wide merchants she saw normally, and, of course, the few Kelemvorites she normally associated with.

Once again today, somewhere in one of the many crypt-like structures built within the Cliff Side Cemetery, Afendaria was hard at work, performing some of her daily rituals. Making her way past the empty coffins and plethora of embalming tools, ointments, gauze, and other paraphernalia meant for preparing the dead for their final rest, she strolled under a large stone arch and stood before a set of massive scales hanging off the wall, which were held up in the air by a carving of a bony arm.

Standing over a nearby stone table, she took up vials of water and powdered silver that had been left out for her use and began blessing the liquids, invoking the name of Kelemvor with every spell cast. Each time the divine blessings she cast manifested, an eerie coldness seemed to take her briefly, but it was not the piercing cold one may feel in frigid conditions. Rather, it was as if death and the grave itself were empowering her hands, and to Afendaria, each cool, divine sensation that travelled through her when using the spells left her feeling soothed and relaxed.

After blessing all the water she could that day, every vial of Holy Water created was stored away with care, each intended to be used in protecting the dead from evil or against the curse of undeath. She then moved outside to see if darkness had started to settle in. Without looking up towards the sky or horizon, she saw that the day’s light had dimmed greatly, and night’s blanket was soon to fold over Faerun. Closing the cavern’s doorway and bolting it behind her, she pulled herself back into the Ossuary and made her way to the massive scales that hung from the wall once more.

Taking from the same table she had used to bless the holy water, she grabbed up an incense vessel and lit sticks of Myrrh and Lavender. With the smoky haze of incense burning away, she knelt with the jar towards the scales and closed her eyes. Folding her hands together and dipping her head towards the scales, she entered a deep, meditative-like state. She began to supplicate the Great Guide for spells.

Her prayers and supplication were usually simply placed, requesting any spells that would be useful for battling undeath, blessing water or tombs, or for speaking with the dead. But through her prayers as of late, she had been praying more than ever for the power to protect members of her faith, particularly when a certain Mortarch came to mind.

After about an hour of murmuring and some self-reflection, she slowly rose from the spot she had knelt at and returned the vessel of incense to where she had pulled it from, the lavender and myrrh sticks now spent. Stepping backwards and away from the shrine before her, she lifted her icy eyes up to gaze upon the large scales one more time before she turned and departed. She would pray again with another soon in Daeum, where they would share their thanks to Kelemvor over their purpose and mission there on Faerun, and once again ask for the wisdom and strength to protect those like her friend and fellow cleric of the faith, whom was still subjugated and imprisoned by Cyric’s lies.

Soon, she hoped, it would be time to free this Mortarch from the Black Sun’s madness.

[Afendaria]

1 Mirtul 1362 DR

Afendaria stood silently in the kitchen dressed in a long black gown and over it sat a long black apron covered in powdery splotches of flour. Beneath her sat a large bowl full of batter and a large spatula on the kitchen table. Her icy and tired eyes slowly wandered up to glance at three others huddled around the cabin’s fireplace, where the three were quietly speaking to one another.

“She is.. speaking with her own voice, her own mind,” Afendaria quietly muttered to herself. “It is no longer his wretched tongue speaking for her.”

She gawked at the small group for a long moment, then slowly closed her tired eyes and lowered her head. She stood there alone and quiet again, mulling over the last four months since their venture down into the Undercity and the ruined temple of Bhaal. Besides the hard work involved with moving the dead, there had been so much pain, worry, confusion, anger and sadness since. Faith, however, had kept them, and with the help of others, things had finally returned to what they should be. They, Afendaria and the other Kelemvorites she was closest with, were all safe.

Slowly Afendaria looked up towards the source of a monotone voice addressing her patiently. Standing before her was a shorter, pale woman with long, white hair, dressed in an apron different from Afendaria’s own – it was white, with yellow flowers as its pattern. Afendaria stared at the familiar and close Kelemvorite, and then finally a light smile broke out past her own fatigue. Afendaria's gaze then turned past the shorter woman and she regarded the other two, still sitting near the fireplace.

“Sorry.. I..” Afendaria muttered and then shook her head. Looking back to her kitchen table Afendaria reached for an open bottle of rum. She sighed, then smiled softly once more towards the white haired, young woman. “I’m almost done mixing it... I’ll join you soon, hm?”

The pale Kelemvorite donned in her flowery apron lifted two cups of hot tea off from the table and proceeded to bring them to the others. Afendaria meanwhile poured a generous amount of rum into the batter, took up the spatula and started mixing again. While the three conversed with one another, she could not help but pause to look up to watch the three, forsaking the rum filled, potent batter once again.

“She’s safe now,” she thought, her attention on the Mortarch by the fire. She then looked to the Mortarch's protector, then Elisia, and finally, she looked back down to eye and then continue her work. “Nathalie, Korwin, Elisia... all safe and free from Black Sun’s lies...”

[None]

Long past the cemetery beyond Baldur's Gate, Elisia lay back along the hill of the bluff. Long yellow spring flowers swayed gently against her dark black hood, while her hair draped along her shoulders like fresh snowfall. The sounds of gulls had not yet begun in those early hours. Her aquamarine eyes remained soft beneath their crowns of dark raven lashes. The tired Kelemvorite watched the morning clouds roll in; their long trails looked like waves across the golden soaked sky. Her lashes fluttered briefly in protest of sleep before she finally began to drift into the memories of the last few days.

Long discussions of a ritual had finally come to fruition. While many may speculate about what exactly happened, one thing was certain. The return of Nathalie brought nothing short of miraculous relief to the usually reserved Kelemvorite. What had begun as a nightmare could finally be released and let go. It faded beneath the faint sounds of the other faithful catching up, the sound of Nathalie's bright laughter, Afendaria's accusations, and Korwin's grumbling denials. Elisia drew in a long breath, appreciating the moment while knowing it would not always remain this way. She held onto the peace, listening to her friends further up the bluff, until she finally drifted into a much needed nap.

[Afendaria]

9 Mirtul, 1362 DR - The End of a Hated Foe

Rubbing her temple, Afendaria stepped away from the nightstand where she had just left a small tray of food. A bowl of assorted fruit, buttered bread, and a glass of milk had been left behind, offered to another woman wearing tattered, dark clothes, who was still sleeping in a very blue bed. Not wishing to wake her fellow member of the faith, Afendaria, still tired, made her way into the corner of the room, where she stared down at an object that had been left leaning against the wall: a blade, both long and cruel, twisted in its appearance.

She stared at the weapon for a long moment as she lowered her hand from her head. Afendaria had found little sleep the previous night, often waking at random intervals, and had opted instead to get out of bed early to clean herself up and fetch Elisia breakfast. There had been much conflict the previous day, and since then, many different feelings and emotions over the ordeal had kept her awake. But now, she was gawking at a disgusting weapon, a tool of one of her previous enemies that had been difficult to deal with.

Naighon. The town’s name came to her mind suddenly. Naighon was the place where it had all begun. She, Elisia, and a mill worker who had survived the terrible plague that ruined that tiny village had worked tirelessly for days to bury all of the dead there. Afendaria recalled that she had collapsed when the work was done and had been hauled back in a cart, making it home to recover.

Had it really been over a whole year since Naighon? That was the question that came next. She closed her eyes, recalling more from the past year. She remembered that, since returning from that doomed village, she had been hounded by taunts and at times hunted by the same foe that had terrorized and brought a brutal end to Naighon. She recalled fighting both mercenaries and Talonite cultists alongside Elisia. Other dark, twisted, and grotesque forces had been employed against them, but their enemy had never succeeded in stopping either her or Elisia. Instead, at every attempt, at every plot hatched and carried out, the pair had weakened their enemy’s influence and had always overcome whatever plan or tools the Talonites and their lackeys had sent against them.

“It’s... finally over...” Or so Afendaria had thought at first. Yesterday, they had found the place where the enemy had taken hold and made it their own, deep within some woods to the east. It was there that they fought past disease-riddled ghouls and cursed plants and vegetation that seemed to be alive, lashing out against them. It was there where Elisia, Afendaria, and their allies saw through the illusions their enemies had employed, ones meant to dissuade or trick those approaching. Then they had gone into the maw of the beast, the lair of their hated foe, and had made their way past all manner of strange, grotesque creatures. Some had been benign, others deadly, and more than a few were found covered in sickening husks of bile, disease, and refuse. Many of those they fought should have died long, long ago.

Fighting against nature, madness, and plague, Afendaria, with Elisia and their allies, defeated them all. They had put the tormented to rest and had even saved a friend who had been their enemy’s prisoner for such a terribly long time. There was nothing left of them. They had wiped their foes out and had dismantled the enemy’s operations for good.

Suddenly, the dark-robed woman in bed shuddered with pain in her sleep, and Afendaria turned her attention toward the other Kelemvorite. When the injured woman calmed and fell back into a mostly still rest, Afendaria let out a sigh, watched the sleeping woman for a long length of time, then turned her tired gaze back toward the weapon.

There it was, the blade of one of her most hated enemies. The man was dead now. She was certain. She swore she had seen him down there in those caves, but the wielder of this blade had become something else, something no longer the sinister tiefling she recognized. Stepping up to the sword, Afendaria flinched harshly as the memory of being bitten by that same blade came back to her. Then she remembered watching another be impaled by the same sword. She shook off the sensation, then set her hand on the greatsword and lifted it into the air.

Immediately, the weapon released a sweet, chemical scent that permeated the air as she lifted the massive cleaver, and Afendaria was met with a wave of calm that soothed over her. She held the blade in a sudden haze, seemingly almost surrendering her fatigued state to the serenity that holding the massive weapon sent through her... but then she paused, canting her head as she studied the cold iron blade’s fuller, the weapon chock-full of some vile, bubbling substance.

Afendaria knew what the blade was capable of. She had seen its victims in those woods, their sickly bodies covered in dreadful slash wounds. She knew what the weapon did to them. She knew she had been fortunate to survive their fate.

It was over for her hated Talonite enemies, but with this weapon in her hand, Afendaria knew there was work to do after recovery was over. She shook off the calm that the weapon seemed to wash her over with and then shoved the blade back into the corner.

She had wanted to keep the sword in her own collection of weapons... but this giant blade wouldn’t be joining Jim-George’s Wicked Axe in her trophy collection, no. Unlike the axe that Jim-George, another servant of Talona had wielded, this greatsword had to be destroyed.