The Mournblade

Being but a blade, a description akin to comparing a volcano to a hill, the mechanics of The Mournblade are incredibly simple. Though forged of rare Glint, the truest complexity lies not in what it is, but who. A Cryptic of incredible power, The Mournblade is capable of manifesting its potent powers through their wielder, learning as it travels, devouring as it goes, feeding upon those of those who are slain and trapping them within its edge. Confined within this iron prison, those caught by the blade are tortured for what they know, torn apart piece by piece as each morsel becomes part of the greater entity. It is this that makes the blade so dangerous, for not only does it know more than any should, it will drive ever onwards to uncover that which was forgotten with good reason.

There are, in essence, two vital components of The Mournblade. The first is its physical form, a beautiful longsword of black metal forged by the dwarves of Makar deep beneath the ground. Comprised of Glint, the strange alloy of Clock-Metal and enigmatic science, its edge is both fine and toxic. Such a foundation was required of course, for lesser metals would have shattered had the second part of its construction been forced upon them. That being the Cryptic who does not live within the blade, but is the blade. Born through an act of brutal murder, the sword was awoken through the death of a god, and in doing so, it took their place in the heavens. Such was the fate of Sadi, Cryptic of Maltheism and Divine Spite, their role supplanted, the irony eternal.

The Mournblade's origin is one of rebellion, conflict and strife. Forged by Mourne in the days leading up to the terrible war that would tear the elven kingdoms apart, it was a solution to a problem that had paralysed the maltheist's plan. In a war against the gods, magic would be needed to bring battle against the spirits of The Shade, but such could not be manifested without bargain and pact with those very creatures. Unwilling to seek out the depraved and darker entities that would thrive in such a conflict, Mourne turned himself to the arts of Anima and Discord. Binding a Cryptic was simple, but such a being would seek escape, would plan and plot eternally against the wielder, and gifted with their immortality, would eventually find freedom.   What Mourne needed was such a spirit loyal to them, and unaware and undesiring of an existence outside of their cage. Carefully did Mourne begin to formulate their solution, to create a Cryptic within a blade, to not bind but birth power wed to metal and blood. They started small, hunting through The Shade and the bitter lands in search of Cryptics whose service was sworn to the greater gods. One by one they fell, their essence scattered, their concepts shattered, redefined and replaced. One by one they fell, as the legend of The Mournblade grew greater and darker indeed.   When the time was right, when the name of this dreaded sword was whispered in the courts of Cryptic kind, Mourne struck out against his truest target. A spirit of divine loathing, the master of misotheism and bleak vengeance against the gods, their battle was true and titanic. It was tragic tale, by any measure, for both faced the other with murder and malice, both but reflections of themselves, twisted and caught upon the skeins of devoured self-loathing. Mourne had mastered much however, travelled far and battled the great and deadly; their arts sublime in cruelty and destruction. The Cryptic was shattered and the blade was born, for concept must not be left abandoned. What better to take the name of Godslayer, than the weapon that had consigned so many to the grave already?   What remained then was a blade of loathing, of spite and revolution, but also one of curiosity. The Mournblade had taken upon it those very same traits of its master, a rage faded and replaced with a morbid desire to understand the fate it so readily delivered to those it had declared bane. Alive and sentient, it witnessed its creator and agreed to serve; so beginning The Mourning War as Amilyn descended into flame. To those elves who had sworn to the banner of rebellion, the blade gifted magic and feral arcana, an art brutal and martial in kind. The war would rage, the battles would burn, the Vokai, as they named themselves, would bleed the very earth in their search for divine destruction...   And they would lose.   The blade would vanish. With Mourne slain on the Field of An'Fait by the hands of Ashur, the elven kingdoms would collapse upon themselves, the ensuing chaos destroying much of the histories of these ancient times. Many would claim the blade broken in battle, others would state that it fled to the void, seeking a truer understanding of the fate it embodied. The Vokai know different, however, for their magic flicker still bright. Their pacts still honoured, their blades burning bright, the sword survives buried deep in waiting...   One day it will return, and it will sing of true death to the divine.

The Mournblade is a relic of tremendous importance to the Vokai of the elven tribes, being in forged form the symbol of their struggle against the Cryptic gods, and the means by which their founder, Mourne, will return to them. In stark contrast do the other elven tribes view it with fear; a iron bound declaration of war against The Shade. It represents not just a promise, but a choice, a side chosen in a conflict the elves have, for so very long, avoided.   It is not a prophecy then, but a Doom. One day it will be found, that much is certain; one day it will return to the hands of the Vokai. The heavens will burn, Amilyn will drown in blood, and one way or another, there will be none left to offer praise to the gods. Hidden it remains, however, and for that there is peace... For now.