On a dark and stormy night (Don't all great stories start like this?), a young dragonborn ventured into the library of his large home, his eyes glancing over the large collection of titles adorning the shelves. Only a couple candles lit the large room, which was enough to at least see the titles. The young boy eagerly thumbed through the books until he came to a very large one. He had to use two hands to pull it out, the book being the size of a house cat (and the thickness of one too). The book in question was a large book depicting various weapons of all shapes and sizes. He loved looking through it, admiring the various pictures and descriptions inside and imagined himself as a brave warrior wielding a plethora of flails and swords. He relished the time he used to gaze through the tome, busy working most of the day or being trained by his grandfather the art of the sword.

Just as the storm picked up outside, he turned to a page depicting a large black blade. He sat up straight, studying the sword intently. His eyes roamed over the image, then began reading the description. "Wielded by... a demon? A demon sword!? That's amazing! I can't imagine anyone not wanting to wield this blade into battle!" Without warning, the storm blew the windows open, a large gust of wind blowing out the candles in the room. The room was nearly pitch black, only the dreaded lightning outside illuminating the room. The boy snarled, standing up. "Dammit... just when I'm getting to a good part..." The sky flashed yet again, this time revealing a dark silhouette. The dragonborn turned, seeing a figure standing over him, it's eyes glowing blood red. A sinister smile crossed the invader's features before he lunged out, grabbing the boy by the head. He cried out, as if his brain were on fire, then his vision began to blur as he heard a voice. "It's nice to see someone who can appreciate something so sinister for a change... when I decide to, I just might bring it to you. But I may call upon you for a favor some day, brat..." The dragonborn fell tot he ground with a thud as sinister laughter filled his ears.

He came to eventually, feeling someone strong shaking him. "Lad! Wake up, lad!" The boy's eyes flickered open, finding the face of his beloved grandfather, the only family he's had for the last couple years. "Grandfather!" He sat up immediately, looking about frantically. "Where is he!?" The elder dragonborn raised a brow. "Who?" "Who? The demon! There was a demon here!" "You must've had a dream when you passed out." He stood, picking up the thick book and returning it to it's rightful place. "All I found was you, lying on the ground. I swear, judging by the sound of it, it sounded like you were dancing! You could've knocked a candle over!" The young one looked to the candles, which were now lit. "What? But they went out earlier..." "Well, they were lit when I came in! Now go get ready for bed. We have to head into town tomorrow."


Present day...


Azerin awoke from his slumber, feeling as if he had been asleep for ages. He sat up, rubbing his head groggily. He turned his head, seeing his companion, Arius, with his back to him. "About time you woke up.", he jested, his arms folded over his chest. "Febrian left you some armor over beside the bed." He waved his hand abit towards him. Azerin raised a brow. "What happened to my old armor?" Feeling a breeze, he looked down. "What happened to my sword? My boots? M-My clothes!?" "Brude and Jett took the lower half of your body on an airship." "BELRADONTIUS DAMN THEM!... where the hell are we anyway? This place looks vaguely familiar..." "The black smith's." Azerin jumped to his feet. "What!? We can't be here, she'll kill me!" "ALready did. She's... taken care of. And to make up for killing you, she's offered to let me disenchant all of her items." "...she's dead and she doesn't know you're doing this, does she?" "Pick out a new sword and anything else you think you'll need. I'll conjure someting up for you." Azerin sighed and shook his head, not feeling she deserved it, considering he got himself into this mess.

Before simply asking for a sword just like the one he had before, a large book happened to catch his eye. He wandered over to said book, pulling it off the shelf. "Hm. Odd." "What's odd?", Arius asked, turning his head just slightly towards the dragonborn warrior. "My grandfather had a book just like this. Lost it in a fire." As if instinct drove him, he began thumbing through the book until coming across a particular page. "You could at least have gotten dressed first..." Azerin ignored him, plopping the book down on the table beside him. "This. Make it." He left Arius with the book, proceeding to do as he requested and begins suiting up. Arius turns to the book, raising a brow out of curiosity at the weapon depicted. "Wave of Sorrow... you know this will eat up a lot of the residuum I set aside for you, right? A sword this powerful..." "That's fine." Azerin stepped up, now wearing the scaly red armor, finding it to be a much better fit then what he had before. "I... just feel I'm supposed to have this." "Like destiny?", Arius mused. "Yeah... that sounds about right. I feel the sword itself chose me." "Chose you? But how can a weapon choose...?", the eladrin pondered. "It's... just a philosophy my grandfather passed on to me. I'm taught a weapon chooses it's master, not the other way around." Arius grimaced, suddenly reminded of Daerist. "I think I know what you mean..." And yet I can't help but feel something wicked is attached to this sword., Azerin thought to himself in secret.

Something was wrong.

Arius gazed at the book that Azerin had handed to him, his eyes hovering over the ancient painted image of the blade, and the words that accompanied it. The words, in fact, were the most intriguing thing about this situation for Arius, for they were written in the ancient common language of the archipelago, a language that he’d not heard spoken in over a thousand years. Not only was it odd that such a book was here, in a blacksmith’s forge on the mainland, but the simple fact that Azerin had apparently been able to read it struck Arius as strange as well.

“Azerin,” the eladrin said softly, lowering the book and looking hard at his self-proclaimed bodyguard. “Tell me, what language is this?” He handed the book back to Azerin, waiting patiently as the warrior looked back and forth from the page to Arius. Finally, his voice questioning, Azerin responded.

“It’s draconic, of course,” the dragonborn said slowly, handing the book back to Arius. “Are you feeling alright?”

Arius nodded, turning his back to his companion as he studied the ancient volume closer. He closed his eyes, his brow furrowing as he concentrated on the book and nothing else, tracing the flowing currents of magic that swirled around him until—

Nothing.

There was no hint of magic upon the book, at least nothing that Arius could sense. He looked back over his shoulder, to where Azerin stood with his massive arms crossed over his chest. The dragonborn raised a brow-ridge questioningly, obviously wondering what had gotten into the swordmage. Ignoring the towering form of Azerin, Arius returned his attention to the mysterious book, his eyes wandering over the text.

That the weapon had dark origins, Arius had no doubt, but upon further reading, he realized just how sinister those origins were. The Wave of Sorrow had been created at the dawn of time for the use of an ancient demon prince. It was a massive, serrated black greatsword, and only the dark lord for whom it had been created could wield it. Eons ago, after the supposed death of its owner, the Wave of Sorrow simply vanished from all knowledge, with only this one record to prove that it had even existed.

Arius once again looked back at Azerin, his features ashen.

“Well?” the dragonborn asked, somewhat impatiently. “Can you do it or not?”

Arius nodded, for the book had given clear instructions on how one powerful enough may be able to create a duplicate of the infamous blade, one that would match it in both appearance and general power, though the original was said to have been far stronger than any copy could hope to rival. The question wasn’t could he, though… Rather, it was should he.

They were running out of time, that much Arius knew, and with a blade of such power, they would no doubt have the advantage over Brude and Jett in the battle that was most certainly to come. Arius had some other plans, of course, if it came to battle, but with Azerin at his back, wielding a weapon such as the Wave of Sorrow, there was no way that they could lose.

Yes… Tellesta had to be rescued, and Brude had to be stopped before he reached another of the planar rifts. To that end, Arius would create this blade for Azerin, and if worst came to worst, he could simply disenchant the blade when they were finished with this mission. Besides, it was only a copy of the weapon, not the weapon itself; what harm could come of it?

Against his better judgment, Arius began preparing for the ritual that would bring the Wave of Sorrow back into existence again, or at least a duplicate of it. Perhaps he was simply tired from the strain of performing the strenuous ritual that had returned Azerin to life, as well as the tiring process of disenchanting several of the blacksmith’s items to produce the necessary residuum, or perhaps—unknown even to Arius—some darker power was at work…

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Azerin sat on the floor of his quarters inside Marlenus' fantastic new airship. The sword Febrian had lent him just moments ago rested in his lap, partially unhilted as he studied the blade. Anyone could plainly see a lot of care went into making a blade such as this, and a fine blade it was, though he was more accustomed to larger swords. However, in his current state of mind, the only thing he thought of this blade was that it was weak compared to the sword he once wielded recently. The Wave of Sorrow as everyone knew was a mighty blade, one not to be taken lightly. A lesson that the one called Dolly had learned too late. However, everyone could plainly see that not only was it evil, but it was having an effect on Azerin, both physically and mentally. Physical-wise, the battle with Dolly had left him much stronger, and the color of his scales had turned to a darker shade of red. However, his current mental state was more vile, leaning more towards evil now. Though the sword was no longer on his person, it still held some sway over the dragonborn, calling to him, making him flip between a more docile personality and a cruder, more aggressive one. He snarled slightly, slowly sheathing Febrian's sword all the way.

Many thoughts ran through Azerin's head. He recalled his sword was currently inaccessible, and that Brude and Arius would attempt to disenchant the sword later. Part of him felt this was for the best, as he knew he was a threat to everyone while that sword was around. And yet he couldn't help but grow angrier with each passing moment, feeling him and only him should decide the fate of what he believe to be HIS sword. They're jealous... he would think to himself. They know I'm stronger than all of them! They know I could destroy them with just a thought! He gripped the hilt of the sword tighter, then relaxed. Or maybe... they just don't understand? Of course! If they only knew the power that sword had, they would have no choice but to allow me to wield it! He smiled as his grip loosened on the blade's hilt, then he glared down at the sword again. Or perhaps instead they'll try to take it for themselves!

Azerin drew the sword once more,smiling wickedly. "But what if... yes, of course! That fool Febrian lent me something to barter with." He knew how precious this sword was and figured he could hold it ransom, forcing her to retrieve the sword for him. He shook his head, blinking, then sheathed the sword. No! How could I even think it? Febrian is a fellow swordsman.... well, swordswoman, one I respect greatly. How could I even think it? Azerin had started to realize the sword was like a drug to him. He had grown addicted to it's power and craved more and more. He sighed, resting the sword in his lap again and closed his eyes. "I know for a fact nothing good can come of this... but for now all I can do is wait and see what fate has in store for all of us." He fell silent again, awaiting the moment when all would be revealed to him. But one question still lingered deep in his mind.

Why was it I was chosen to have this sword? Why me?

Oh, Robert. I am going to kill you. *shakes head*

Arius stared at the sheathed blade.

In the week and more since he’d created the accursed weapon, a sense of ominous dread had been creeping over him, the sensation coming to a head when he’d seen what Azerin had been able to do with it in battle.

Or, perhaps, what it had been able to do with Azerin…

But how? Arius wondered, not for the first time. It isn’t like I made the actual Wave of Sorrow, after all; it was only a copy, a powerful copy yes, but still just a copy… The book from which he’d received his instructions had not even given off the slightest hint of arcane power, which meant that it been just an ordinary book on the subject of weapons and religious lore.

Religious lore…

His gleaming amethyst eyes widened at his own stupidity. That he had been both mentally and physically exhausted during the time that he’d held that book was no excuse, particularly not if it had led to this current situation. He hadn’t sensed anything from the book because it was not imbued with arcane power, but rather it must have been instilled with divine energy. He cursed himself, wishing that he still had that volume more than anything else.

The door to the workroom opened and closed, and from the aura of arcana that surrounded the newcomer, Arius knew that it was Brude.

“So,” the half-elf sorcerer said as he walked up to stand beside Arius, his plate-mail clanking ever-so-slightly. His blue eyes flicked from the Wave of Sorrow and back to Arius, a wry smile flitting across his lips. “Are you really going to try it?”

Arius nodded. “I have to do something. I’m responsible for this thing, and for what its done to Azerin. I was a fool for making it, even when in the back of my mind I knew it was wrong.” His brow furrowed with concern as he looked at his long-time companion. “This is not a normal magic blade, by any stretch. Brude, I think that the soul of the demon lord who once wielded it is bound within it, much like Daerist was bound within my blade.”

Brude raised a questioning eyebrow, and Arius could tell from the distant look in the sorcerer’s eyes that he was deep in thought. “But how is that possible?” he asked finally. “I thought you said you made this blade, and I know you aren’t powerful enough to transfer a soul from a living creature into a weapon, especially not the soul of an ancient demon prince.”

It was Arius’ turn to flash Brude a quick smile. “Yet,” he shot back.

Brude shrugged and nodded. “Yet,” he agreed.

“It must have been the tome that gave instructions on how to create a lesser copy of the Wave of Sorrow,” Arius went on, returning his attention to the sinister blade, which rested on one of the magical workroom’s many tables. Thank the gods that Telesta managed to get this for us, the eladrin thought, concerning the pocket-dimension mage school that he and Brude shared. “I believe that the ritual that I performed to create a copy of the blade was only a front, and that the true effect was that I recalled this demon’s soul from whatever plane it had been banished to, infusing that soul into the greatsword with which I was working.”

Brude nodded. “Sounds plausible. We both know that it is possible not only for a blade to be infused with a consciousness, but for a consciousness to simply, ah, jump from one vessel to another.” He knew that Arius would understand the meaning behind his words, for it had been his own soul that had escaped his former, magically imprisoned body to inhabit the corpse of the Loudwater soldier that he now was. “If that’s the case, though…” He let the thought trail off.

“Then disenchanting it may not be quite as easy as I’d like to hope,” Arius finished.

“Well then,” Brude went on, smirking at his companion, “it’s a very good thing that I’ll be around to help you.” His expression turned serious, cutting off the protest that Arius was about to make. “You know as well as I do that, with our combined powers, we could accomplish almost anything. I’m not taking no for an answer.”

Arius was silent for a moment, but eventually he nodded agreement. “And what about the others? If something goes wrong, you know one or more of them will sense it, and come running. We can’t risk their safety in this; they will all be out of their element.”

Again, that arrogant smile as Brude spoke. “Not to fear, Arius. Shortly after we brought the sword here, while you and the others were traipsing about the city—”

“What’s left of the city, you mean.”

“—I made sure that the room was securely warded, allowing only you and myself to enter,” he finished, waving aside Arius’ interjection. “We’ll be quite undisturbed, I promise.”

“Saege?” Arius mentally sent, for his familiar had remained outside the workroom when he had entered nearly an hour earlier.

“Yes?” she responded, her warm mental voice doing much to ease Arius’ discomfort.

“Brude and I are going to attempt to disenchant the Wave of Sorrow. I need you to remain outside, to be my eyes, in case—”

“In case you need to make a fast getaway. I understand.” The spirit owl was suddenly silent, and Arius sensed a deep worry through their bond.

“What is it?” he asked.

“I fear for you, bonded,” she admitted. “This may be an undertaking beyond your power, even with Brude’s offered assistance. Be careful.”

“Of course,” Arius responded reassuringly. He turned to Brude, nodded once, and began preparing for the ritual. “Let us begin,” he said softly, unable to shake the ominous feeling that had come to him through his bond with Saege.

“Alright then,” Brude agreed, focusing his impressive arcane might in preparation of aiding Arius.

As the eladrin adept turned to the table and lowered his hands over the wicked blade, the world around them shattered, plunging them into absolute darkness. A demonic, chilling laughter surrounded them, and they readied themselves for what promised to be the most intense battle of their long, long lives…

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AMdG