Deyran lifted the lid, and for a heartbeat, the world seemed to hold still, as if it, too, knew the gravity of what lay within.
Wrapped in red crimson silk, a blade gleamed beneath the lantern’s glow. Its hilt, dark and smooth as polished onyx, felt weighty with purpose; along the blade’s edge ran a faint glint of lyrium, a shimmer so subtle it was like a secret whispered in a crowded room. This wasn’t just a weapon—no, it was a piece crafted with precision, built for one with speed and finesse. A sword made for him.
He squinted, catching intricate etchings winding along the steel—runes. Each symbol had been inscribed with care, tracing a path of power along the metal, glinting in blue and silver as they caught the light. Rune etching was no simple feat, let alone of this quality. Whoever had crafted this blade had spared no expense, nor effort, weaving magic and skill into every inch.
He reached out, fingers skimming the markings, feeling a quiet hum beneath the surface—a pulse, alive and waiting, a force he could call upon. This wasn’t merely a blade; it was a vessel, an extension of himself that would amplify his strength and sharpen his movements.
Beside it, a set of armor lay, leather shades of dark gray and worn enough to mold to his form yet sturdy, reinforced for silent resilience. Subtle patterns of white, red, and gold ran along the seams, almost hidden, yet powerful, drinking in the shadows as if they’d been crafted to merge with them. His hand traced the chestplate, and the enchantment thrummed back, fiercely, ready to shroud him in darkness and follow his every step, swift and soundless.
He pulled back, a flicker of something unguarded in his gaze. These weren’t just tools of the trade—they were gifts, crafted with rare understanding.
Wrapped in red crimson silk, a blade gleamed beneath the lantern’s glow. Its hilt, dark and smooth as polished onyx, felt weighty with purpose; along the blade’s edge ran a faint glint of lyrium, a shimmer so subtle it was like a secret whispered in a crowded room. This wasn’t just a weapon—no, it was a piece crafted with precision, built for one with speed and finesse. A sword made for him.
This… this can’t be for me.His hand brushed over the blade’s hilt, and he shook his head, awe plain on his face.
He squinted, catching intricate etchings winding along the steel—runes. Each symbol had been inscribed with care, tracing a path of power along the metal, glinting in blue and silver as they caught the light. Rune etching was no simple feat, let alone of this quality. Whoever had crafted this blade had spared no expense, nor effort, weaving magic and skill into every inch.
He reached out, fingers skimming the markings, feeling a quiet hum beneath the surface—a pulse, alive and waiting, a force he could call upon. This wasn’t merely a blade; it was a vessel, an extension of himself that would amplify his strength and sharpen his movements.
Beside it, a set of armor lay, leather shades of dark gray and worn enough to mold to his form yet sturdy, reinforced for silent resilience. Subtle patterns of white, red, and gold ran along the seams, almost hidden, yet powerful, drinking in the shadows as if they’d been crafted to merge with them. His hand traced the chestplate, and the enchantment thrummed back, fiercely, ready to shroud him in darkness and follow his every step, swift and soundless.
He pulled back, a flicker of something unguarded in his gaze. These weren’t just tools of the trade—they were gifts, crafted with rare understanding.
A gift like this…he whispered, the words nearly lost in the stillness.
I’m afraid you must think more of me than I deserve.
11-09-2024, 09:14 PM
