M'Ikalden's Journal (Passage I)

34th of Willow, Sun Stone.

Archhorde Village.



The war, well it was long a cold. I need not go into detail of that oh which is not, the story that will be told of this night. For it gripped me tightly with ague, if it were to be described as aught it was a day that pressed the question of hidden evils. If I were to speak of this, they would throw me in bedlam. So I will write of this, and keep this journal tucked away.



I returned in betimes home, and to my forefathers decree, enlisted again on that same rainy day. My boots of deerskin were commoner and deteriorating, the twine threading apart at my toes. I was soaked to the bone in my tunic, heavy although it was, the gold in my pocket weighed me down moreso.



If you ask what I did with all spared time, well, I was commended in my possession the witch queen Lucerina's blade passed down between brethren, a heirloom. Forged in the dark edifice of Namoor's Keep. The place crawls with lich and the darkest entities of folklore. The steel lusts for blood much the same these creatures do. When it was not wrapped in clout beneath my bedside, it was strapped to my hip or swung above my head in battle. I'd learned in a pub from a communicant that she lives on inside the damned thing and calls upon the evil of death's shrouds and the minions of the deceiver himself.



What ungodly blade did my forefathers stumble across on one of their missions through the eastern wards of Namoor? I couldn't quite catch this, I pass it off as folktale. It was naught but a blade forged in Namoor, a heirloom of battle passed down into a family of warriors. Never had I experienced anything, it was lightweight, to most a heavy and dark blade, but nothing of the blade rang evil or corrupt. Albeit a dark history, it seems much a normal sword to me.