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Burnisher:
1d6+Atk
This battle-axe is as elegant as any fine sword, dripping with details and beautiful scroll-work done in golden wire. The blade is bronze, adorned with brass and copper accents. Yet despite it's archaic appearance, it gleams with beautiful lethality. This is a weapon meant to be carried on a jeweled belt by a handsome King, but make no mistake, it can still kill like any common instrument of violence.
Once upon a time, there was a tailor named Sneep. This tailor was known for making beautiful clothes for the well educated, wealthy and powerful of his city. Yet he also made more modest garments for the poor and down trodden. Sneep never shirked no matter who he was making clothes for, always giving the maximum amount of effort. Whether you were a pauper or a High Priest, Sneep would guarantee you were dressed well.
So when the Chaos Cult known as the Children of Freedom seized control of his city in a putsch, Sneep found himself arrested along with most of the nobility and the other leading citizens of the city. Their Red Priest told them that they would be given a chance to redeem themselves, which filled the captives with hope. But when they were marched out of the dungeons the next day, they learned the cruel truth. The Red Priest told them that they would be given a choice- if they wished, they could live, but for each day they lived, one citizen would be sacrificed in their place. Alternatively, they could seek redemption by hurling themselves into a great fire.
To the disgust of the cultists and the poor citizens selected, many of the powerful chose to sacrifice someone else in exchange for their own lives. They did so and many common people were brutally slaughtered before the high and mighty. The Red Priest then exhorted the people, demanding to know why they obeyed such men who were so cruel and desperate, rapacious men who cared for nothing but their own survival. Sneep, who had chose for someone else to die in his place, wept at this as he was taken back to the dungeons. He cried bitter tears that night and decided that he would not allow anyone else to die for him. He would do what was right and die.
But before he could, Chaos Cultists suddenly stormed in and took him away. He was almost relieved, certain that he was going to be killed. But it was not to be- the cultists presented him to their leader, the Red Priest. The Priest handed over his axe and ordered Sneep to decorate it for him. Sneep was confused and explained he was no metal-smith, no worker of steel. The Red Priest laughed and spat on the tailor. He knew that, of course. He wanted Sneep to create a design for a smith to follow, so renowned was Sneep for his design. The Red Priest demanded it be a demonstration of his cruel faith, of the atrocities it represented. Sneep refused, saying such a thing would go against his ever thought. The Red Priest ordered him to do it anyway, or he would kill two in place of Sneep tomorrow.
At this, Sneep vowed to do so. Sneep was then taken to a private room and given ample materials to sketch out a design. Sneep attempted to create one, he truly did, though it disgusted him to think of his art being used to glorify such an awful cause. But no matter how hard he worked, he could not create anything workable. All of his drawings degenerated into scribbles and his notes into meaningless repetition. Even prayers to the God of Artists were in vain.
Finally, Sneep decided to do what he had wanted to do the whole time. He drew the outline of the Red Priest's weapon, a hideous tool of massacre and murder and began to decorate it. He smoothed the jagged lines and stripped away the ugliness. Then he built up again, layering details, simple, repeating patterns that made the weapon unique, yet soothed the eye and soul. He worked all night in a frantic rush, not stopping to eat or drink or even relieve himself, so consumed was he by passion. This was a design worthy of his craft he thought, a true work of genius. Just then, right as he finished, cultists burst in and informed Sneep that the Red Priest had summoned him.
What happened next is murky. Some say that Sneep took his drawing and from it pulled the axe into reality, so compelling was his vision. Others say that the God of the Forge blessed Sneep by sending an Angel of Art to possess his body. This Angel then killed the cultists and barricaded itself in the forge, where it made the axe in secret in 13 days. Still others claim that Sneep was given a vast pile of jewelry to work with and someone he managed to melt them down into an instrument of violence, into which he poured all his hatred for the Red Priest and his desire for Order and peace.
Regardless of the truth, the cultists were slain, the King and the nobility were freed on the 14th day and after the death of the Monarch the Prince smashed the Children of Freedom and scattered them to the winds. Their Red Priest himself met a grisly end at the hands of the people of the city- for after the Prince bested him in a duel, the Prince smashed his hands so he could not wield his weapon and left him to a peasant mob. It is said that they yelled, "For Sneep!" as they tore him limb from limb. But I would not trust those stories.
Abilities:
- 3/Day, the wielder can bestow an aura on any creature he can touch. This aura gives them 1d6+X FS, where X is the wielder's CHA modifier (min 1d6+1). This aura lasts for 1 hour or until the FS is used up. While the aura is active, it surrounds the one who bears it with a glowing haze that clings to their body.
- 3/Day, the wielder can clean an object or drive away something that sullies an object. This can be used to drive poison out of a body, remove rust from metal or perform another act of purification (Referee's Discretion applies). If the source of corruption that the wielder is attempting to drive away has a will, then that source gets a save to resist the power of Burnisher.
Burnisher is venerated in the Shrine of the Noble Tailor, a local Spirit venerated by the people of Ban-rao, a City renowned for it's commitment to art and education. The Noble Tailor is said to bless those who struggle against evil, artists and the innocent. The axe rests there in a place of honor and is never taken from it unless the Spirit moves it himself. He has done so when there is need for it, but it has always reappeared after some time. The Shrine-keepers are aware of this and have created a replica axe that they substitute into it's place when the real one has been taken by the Tailor.
Trollslayer:
1d8+Atk
A brutal instrument of heavy steel and countless hammer-blows. The blade, head and shaft of this weapon are worked with runes in an ancient language, declaring the inferiority of the wielder's foes and proclaiming their destruction soon to come. There is no disguising this weapon's true nature- it is a tool of slaughter.
Forged in hatred, borne in blood, a smith who had lost everything declared that he would atone for his crimes. He had committed an unpardonable crime, one that could never be forgiven. Having nothing left, he went to his forge and kindled the furnace with a hot coal taken from his self-loathing. He worked day and night, only pausing to quench his throat and to collapse with exhaustion. Each day he hoped his straw pallet would catch fire and burn him alive, but each day he woke to his own disappointment. The smith continued his labors for 66 days until finally, with the last hammer stroke, the weapon was completed. It was a masterwork of death, an instrument of butchery. This was not the weapon of a hero, but of a murderer.
And so the smith then abandoned his forge next to his empty home and wandered into the wild. He sought out the enemies of his clan, people and faith and put them to the test. He laughed as he fought, daring them to kill him. When they tried, he destroyed them, for even then he feared what would happen if he fell in battle and had to face those he wronged in the afterlife. So he fought gloriously and valiantly, laying waste to countless villains and monsters.
Years passed and the smith continued his crusade, but to his disgust, he found that he had slowly begun to accrue a following. People from all over heard of his heroism and sought to join him in his righteous war against evil. The smith roared at them in disgust and told them he was no hero and refused to lead them. They ignored him and did so anyway, praising him all the more. The smith soon had an army of followers, a band of fanatics with little strength or training but much zeal. The smith tried everything to abandon his followers, from pretending to be dead to running and hiding to disguising himself. Nothing worked for long though, so the smith tried one last attempt to rid himself of his misguided followers.
He told them that he found their dedication to him admirable, but they had to prove themselves to him before they could truly serve him. He had discovered a small cult of Chaos and if his followers could destroy them, he would truly become their leader. His followers rejoiced and kissed his feet, promising to do as he wished. Thehy departed and the smith was alone again. He left, planning to vanish before they could return, but he found himself plagued by an emotion he had not known in a while, he was lonely.
So, perhaps with nothing more than an idle thought, he turned and went back, to see how his followers were doing. And what he saw horrified him. His noble, pure-hearted followers were being butchered by a vastly superior force of evil-doers. The cultists had secretly allied themselves with other evil creatures and so were actually vastly more powerful than the smith had expected. Enraged and filled with overpowering fear that he had condemned another group of loved ones to death, the smith howled in anger and charged into the fray.
After the battle, the smith's followers tended their wounded and buried their dead, all the while looking for their beloved leader. They eventually followed the path of carnage and found him in the heart of the cult's headquarters, surrounded by the bodies of the Chaos Priests and his Acolytes, their blasphemous idol smashed. And there they found their leader, the valiant smith lying dead, caked in blood and gore. They wept over his corpse and frantically attempted to revive him, but nothing worked. He was gone.
Yet when they prepared his body for burial, they found to their surprise that he was not injured. His skin was smooth and undamaged, without a single cut or bruise. All the blood actually belonged to his enemies. This was not the only strange thing about the smith's corpse though. The first thing that troubled them was this- where was the smith's axe? It was a sacred item and to abandon it would be an abomination, yet when they looked, they could not find it. But the more unnerving thing they saw was that the smith, the dour, taciturn smith who was perpetually grumpy and miserable, he was smiling. None remembered if he had ever actually done that while alive. They could not understand this, so they interpreted it as a good thing.
Abilities:
- Wounds created by Trollslayer cannot be healed except by time, no magic or regeneration can heal them faster than that creature's ordinary recovery speed.
- Trollslayer does bonus damage depending on the wielder's current Hit Points. See the table below for the amount of damage it does at any given time. This damage only applies if the wielder successfully hits and does not affect Atk or Defense rolls.
- Trollslayer's chance of scoring a Critical Hit also increases depending on the wielder's HP. See the table below for the increased range of a Critical Hit at any given time.
- As a free action on the wielder's turn, he can cause Trollslayer to deal 1d6 damage to him. This damage cannot be resisted, blocked or evaded by anything short of divine intervention.
How much does it hurt?
The smith fell in battle but his axe was never recovered. Instead it roams the world, seeking out heroes and those who fight evil. It will present itself to them and serve them until they fail to rise or abandon the war against evil. When that happens, the axe will vanish and find a new bearer. To be granted leave to use this weapon is a sign of favor from the Heavens. It is a true testament to the atoning act of good deeds and the mercy of Heaven that a weapon born from bitterness and hatred would instead become a symbol of justice, courage and hope.
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Head-Taker:
1d8+Atk
A huge, oversized blade stained with blood. It seems perpetually damp with blood and splattered in gore and when it is quiet, you can hear a dripping sound, despite nothing coming off the blade and all the stains on it being bone-dry when touched. The weapon seems to radiate a subtle malice and when uncovered, it makes everyone around it slightly uneasy, as if it's about to storm but it hasn't started raining or thundering yet.
There was once a King who had no heir. He was getting old and not as strong as he once was. He had powerful rivals and knew that unless he produced an heir, the Great Houses would shatter his kingdom and plunge it into civil war once he died. So he sought to win the peace by granting the position of grand Vizier to the strongest house, while blessing the second strongest by taking their eldest daughter to be his bride. This was a compromise that he was sure would buy a temporary peace.
To his eternal regret, it did not. His new Queen turned out to be vicious and cutthroat, willing to do whatever it took to assure "his" power. She had countless people jailed and executed, all for alleged threats to the throne. If you were plotting against her, she would have your head removed. If you were suspected of plotting against her, your head was taken. If you were merely inconvenient, your head was lopped off.
She abused countless people like that, killing many and threatening countless others with all sorts of cruelties. The King came to hate and fear her, but found he could not move against her without starting a war. The compromise he had hoped would bring peace had only brought the nation closer to the brink of war.
So the King, with no where else to turn, sought out the forbidden Powers. He spoke into the dark and sacrificed people to it, offering service in exchange for a blessing. The Dark spoke to him and demanded to know what he wanted. The King told them of his plight and begged them for a way to free himself of his Queen without plunging the nation into civil war. The Voice of the Dark spoke to him and told him that what he asked would be done, but only if he promised all the souls he had executed to the Dark Powers. The King was disgusted by this offer, but his fear and concern for his people forced him to agree.
Then just like that, the situation began to dramatically reverse itself. The Queen's supporters began to die. One by one, her brothers, uncles and cousins fell gruesomely. If they were alone, there was no marks on the doors or windows to indicate how the assassin entered. If they were guarded, they were found butchered. Soon her power-base had dwindled to nothing and she cried in the night, convinced every errant noise was a monster coming to take her head. At first, the King celebrated this change, but found the Grand Vizier's power had grown as his Queen had dwindled. Without a rival, the Vizier's house had grown to fill the void they left behind.
So the King sought out the Dark Powers again. He told them that this was not what he wanted. He wanted peace, not for one enemy to be replaced with another. The Voice of the Dark mocked him for his stupidity, but it promised to grant him this request, if he performed blasphemous rites to the Dark Powers. The King was, at first, disgusted by this demand but in the end he consented.
And so, the Grand Vizier's allies began to die in the same way as the Queen's had. The Minsters loyal to him, the Generals and Officers who were sympathetic to him, the relatives he had appointed to positions of power. The Grand Vizier investigated as best he could, but he found nothing. The only thing he did discover was that curiously, the Queen's followers had died exactly as his had.
And so the Grand Vizier secretly met with the Queen and shared information and both discovered they were suffering from the same problem. They had no evidence, but the pattern was clear. So this led to the obvious question- who benefited from both of their misfortunes? And when they pooled their information, there was only one conclusion that made sense.
So one night, when the King was praising the Dark Powers in the necropolis outside the City as he had sworn to do, the doors to the crypt were forced open and soldiers loyal to the Queen and the Grand Vizier stormed in. They saw the abomination being practiced and arrested the King on the spot. He was swiftly tried and executed and as they forced him down onto the headsman's block he cried out that he had only done what he did for peace. Few actually cared when the axe fell and his head was separated from his body.
The Queen and the Grand Vizier married after the coup and restored peace and strength to the Monarchy. And though it's believed they never loved or even particularly liked each other, they had a respect for each other and it's believed that at least one of the Queen's children was the Vizier's. Thus was the Voice of the Dark's promise fulfilled- for through his actions, the King had brought peace to his land. I doubt he would appreciate the irony, however.
EGO Weapon:
- Head-Taker will only allow itself to be wielded by an assassin, warlord, mercenary, executioner or otherwise a professional taker of lives.
- Alternatively, a murderer or someone who places absolutely no value on human life can also wield Head-Taker.
Abilities:
- 3/Day, if faced with a creature that has an amount of HD/levels equal or less than the wielder, the wielder can make an attack against that creature. On a hit, the wielder can instead force that creature to make a save vs death. On a successful save, the creature takes +1d6 damage. On a failed save, the creature is killed as Head-Taker decapitates or otherwise obliterates the creature's body, slaying it out-right.
After being used to kill a King, the headsman's blade used for so many illegal killings was abandoned, for killing a King, even one who worshiped the Dark Powers was a despicable act, comparable to slaying one's own father. So the blade was sent to be melted down and for the resulting metal to be buried in holy ground, so it could never harm anyone ever again. However, when the locked chest was delivered to the smith appointed to destroy the axe, he found it empty.
Since that day the axe has traveled the world, drawn to those with black hearts full of the lust for power or with cowardly hearts to weak to resist it's influence. It seeks to continue it's bloody work, to spill blood in the name of a cause, the blacker the better. If it appears to you, odds are you are exactly the type of person who will know what to do with it.
Patient Silence/Thief of Voices/Silencer:
1d6+Atk
An axe with a bright silver handle and a head of clear crystal, with a blade of impossible sharpness. The blade refracts light and casts rainbows across the walls when bathed in light. It's handle is adorned with opals. To the non-talented it is merely pretty and unusually cold, to those with magical gifts the axe is a void, a defiance of the swirling energies of magic that permeate all things. It is an axe-shaped hole in the unseen world and is, in short, terrifying.
Before the Vulkari were ruled by the Witch-Cults and the Priests of Winter, they faithfully served a number of powerful Magi-houses, each led by an Archmagus or Archmaga. These Houses competed and jockeyed for power, and through negotiation and scheming, elected one of their own to serve as the Wizard King. The Wizard King was not always the strongest Magus but he was supposed to be the wisest or the most worthy. But the Wizard King was mortal and fallible, just like any of us. Some were weak, some were strong, some were faithful and righteous, others were base and wicked. But for all it's flaws, the system survived.
Yet though it endured for centuries, the system was unstable. In time, the Mage-Houses grew more powerful and more independent of the Wizard King, who found himself with less and less ability to control the Mage-Houses. Only a truly strong Wizard King could keep the Mage-Houses in line, which led to them electing weaker and weaker Kings, so they could maneuver and plot as they pleased. This process culminated in two Kings, the White Star King and the Raven King.
The White Star King was an utterly weak, useless creature who was only good for public appearances and papering over the cracks. He smiled and oversaw parades and did his best to ignore the problems growing under the polite veneer of Magi society. He did attempt to resolve some conflicts, but his attempts were either rebuffed entirely or not nearly strong enough.
So when he perished quietly and barely mourned, the competition to elect the next Wizard King was fierce. Eventually, a young firebrand with a talent for transmutation was selected, on the belief that he would be easy to control. And though the youth was rumored to have a talent for divination as well, this was no cause for concern, as all the Mage-Houses employed their own suite of diviners. So he was crowned and declared himself the Raven King.
Almost immediately, the problems began. All attempts to control the Raven King were utter failures as he effortless outmaneuvered his political rivals and broke all the restrictions on him. When the Senate attempted to counter him, he had prominent Senators arrested. When the courts attempted to block him, he ignored their orders. When the Mage-Houses protested, he turned their gardens into glass or teleported an entire army of bound demons into their mansions. The Raven King bullied everyone around him and demanded obedience, as per his position. And when they refused, he baited them into striking first.
The Mage-Houses did exactly as the Raven King expected, attempting to assassinate him and replace him with one of their cronies. But this was trap- the assassins were betrayed and most of the conspirators were arrested and dragged off to the King's dungeons, while the rest were slaughtered in the first battle of what became known as either the Great Witch War or the High House Rebellion, depending on what side you are sympathetic too. This sparked a civil war that raged for many years and left the Mage-Houses in ruins, with the monarchy surviving only as a shade of it's former glory.
The war was a total catastrophe and left the nation in ruins, destroying the great works of the Golden Age of Sorcery and creating a massive power vacuum which was filled by the Witch-Cults and the Priests of Winter, who acted quickly to fill the place left behind by the Mage-Houses. Some of those Houses survive to the present day, but they are vestigial remnants of a previous age, with limited power and influence.
The Wizard King's throne has remained empty with none permitted to sit on it. The reason for this is officially because the Raven King was never confirmed dead so as long as he lives, he is still the King of the Vulkari. But in practice, this is because the Witch-Cults prefer the nations be led by one of their choosing or the Grand Patriarch of Winter.
This fairly transparent political maneuver is kept alive because it benefits everyone involved and so the Priests tell the people that though it may appear he perished in the penultimate battle of the war, the Raven King lives and one day will return to restore the Vulkari to their former grandeur. And while many of the common people believe this, practically worshiping the Raven King like a God, hungering for his return, the high and mighty of the Vulkari quietly scoff at the notion that the Raven King lives.
And while most do believe that the Raven King did actually die at the Battle of the Spires, just as many secretly fear that he is still alive. And should he return, they doubt he will be pleased by what they have reduced his Kingdom to. They probably have nothing to fear though, as he is definitely, assuredly dead, right?
Abilities:
- If someone possessing any magical talent touches Silencer, they feel sharp pain and cannot cast spells or use any innate magics they possess until they release the weapon.
- 3/Day, the wielder can cover himself in an aura that grants him 50% magic resistance. When affected by a spell or magical ability, the wielder should roll 1d10. If the result is 1-5, then the magical effect is repelled and instead bounces to the nearest adjacent target. This aura lasts for 1 minute or until ended by the wielder as a free action.
Silencer was one of several weapons created by the Raven King to empower his non-Gifted servants to strike down the Magister-Lords and Sorcerer-Kings who raised their flag of rebellion against him. These weapons are anathema to the Gifted but still highly valued. Many would seek such a weapon, if only to prevent them from being used against them. The Cult of the Raven also prize these weapons, viewing them as the holy relics, the Glass Talons of the King. They seek such weapons, both to venerate them and to use them to destroy the enemies of the monarchy, so that they might hasten the return of the once and future King.
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| from Seven Deadly Sins |
Mountaincleaver:
1d8+STR
A double-bladed axe, huge and plain, yet radiating a subtle gravity. It looks like it should weigh more than you could lift, but is easy in your hands. When placed on stone, it causes it to crack. Leave it there long enough and it will burn an impression into the stone.
The Warlord Olgur Redscream was known across the Endless Steppes and the garden plains of the stone-tents, famed for his merciless campaigns, skill with a blade and incredible strength. Once he threw a man over the roof of one of the ridiculous green-lander buildings that they loved to build, one of their step-sided artificial hills. He was truly the greatest and strongest man to ever live, or so he believed. But whenever he boasted, he was always told similar stories of others who were similarly strong. This offended him, so he made it his personal mission to hunt down those who had similar tales about him and kill them.
He did this for almost a year and was gratified by the stories his servants reported to him, of how people spoke of no other but him. But one day, when they gossiped, he heard a name he had never heard before. This Takiz, Son of No One, seemed especially powerful, though he didn't seem to have any real achievements. Well no matter, carrying his skull would be plenty satisfying if he was an easy kill. So he went and hunted down this so-called "legendary hero".
When he found Takiz eating bruised plums and drinking the cheapest rotgut money could buy, he was frankly disgusted. This man was a legendary hero? Takiz barely acknowledged him, even after a litany of threats and the listing of all the great men he had killed, the cities he had razed and the offerings he had made to the Great Sorrows. Instead, Takiz stood and brushing off his homespun clothing, pointed to a massive boulder. "Let us settle this not with a tedious battle, but with a single blow. In one week, return here. We will both strike the boulder with one weapon. However does more damage to the stone will be the winner, and granted the right to take the other's head, should he wish to. Does that seem fair?"
Olgur had nothing to say to such a ridiculous offer. This Takiz was no heavier than a boy and had the arms of a frail maid! Of course he accepted, roaring with laughter at his opponent's foolishness. The week passed quickly, Olgur's anticipating growing by the day. Soon he would demonstrate his superiority to that arrogant beggar. The fact that his retainers grew more and more worried as the weak passed only irritated him. Why were they worried? Sure Takiz had defeated other foes, but he had done so via trickery. In a contest of strength, Olgur would triumph.
And so, on the day of the contest, Olgur half expected Takiz not to show up. When he did, he was almost as surprised as his cowardly retainers were fearful. Takiz offered to let him make the first blow and he accepted, eager to watch his opponent humiliate himself. He lifted his great sword and brought it down upon the stone as hard as he could. It was a titanic blow, whipping the air like a gale and sending shockwaves through the earth. The ground quaked and birds fled the area in a squawking storm. And yet, when the dust cleared, the stone was only cracked. Not pulverized, not destroyed, but merely cracked! Takiz applauded, speaking with admiration at his opponent's strength. Yet Olgur knew he was mocking him. "Make your move, coward, that I might rid the world of your wretched face!" He roared.
Takiz nodded, then walked up to the stone and gingerly tapped the stone with an axe he produced from his pack. There was a great rushing sound, then the stone cracked. Olgur stared, his retainers stared, all watched raptly as the crack Takiz had made extended longer than Olgur's. Then the crack spread, zig-zagging across the face of the stone. The sound grew louder and louder until the entire stone broke into a pile of rubble. Takiz turned and stretched, leaning on the axe handle. "Well, that was a bother."
And just then, Olgur Redscream realized what had happened. It was a trick! That was the only explanation. No way someone this pathetic could possibly be better than him. That was impossible! He accused Takiz of cheating and when Takiz merely shrugged and said, "If you say so," Olgur attacked in a furious rage. What happened next is recorded well in many tales, so it will not be repeated here. But it occasionally reported, by highly unreliable sources, that before the clash began, Takiz said something to the effect of, "What a bother."
Abilities:
- 3/Day, the wielder can cut through non-magical stone or metal as if they were made of butter. Slashes done with this axe, when used against stone will always tear open the stone all the way to the other side as long as the stone is less than 100' thick. These massive slashes do not harm anything but stone or metal.
- 1/Day, the wielder can reduce an object made of non-magical stone or metal to a pile of rubble or scrap by touching it with axe, as long as the object is smaller than a cottage. If it is larger, a cottage-sized chunk of it will be reduced to rubble or scrap.
Takiz, Son of No One abandoned Mountaincleaver after he was done with it, giving it a Wolfman with a particular hatred of mountains. So if you've ever wondered why the many gorges and canyons in the Spine of Tarraq are so evenly spaced or where the Star-Rift Valley came from, now you know. Mountaincleaver remained with the Mountainshaper's Clan for many generations, before it eventually vanished during the War of the Purple Spring along with most of the Clan. They are still searching for it, in the belief that they will be returned to their former glory if they can recover it. They do not know that it is currently in the cart of a peddler who has no idea the legendary treasure he found abandoned on the side of the road.
The Wicked Sisters:
1d6+Atk
A pair of gleaming hatchets, their handles made of varnished wood, carved to look like a pair of naked women. They are always found together, often next to a pair of corpses. The hatchets also have names- the one with a topaz stone adorning the head is called Mia and the one which bears an amethyst is named Maya. Anyone who touches one will understand that Mia and Maya are 'Sisters', though the relevance of this fact is questionable.
Once there were a trio of siblings, triplets, two identical girls and their brother. They were young and innocent, living in the lap of luxury, as their family was very rich. But their Father reached too high and attempted to seize the throne for himself. He attempted a coup, but his attempt was foiled by a young general who raced back to the capital and warned the King of the treachery. This gave the King enough time to declare the young general his new Marshal and rally a new army to defend himself.
Innocent of all this, the siblings were playing in the garden when the King's soldiers burst in and arrested their Mother. The children were scooped up and taken away, separated and locked up in the palace. The King hoped to use these as hostages, but when he heard about this, their Father attacked anyway, in the hopes of winning the day. The King took the traitor's son up onto the battlements and had him slaughtered before all, in the hopes that would break his enemy's resolve. But the Father was not defeated by the death of his son, he was empowered. He pushed forward and enraged by the death of a child, his army fought all the harder. The King's army, disgusted by the actions of their monarch, were demoralized and didn't fight nearly as hard.
Taking advantage of this weakness, the Father's armies took the walls but made no further progress and for a moment, it looked like he might prevail. But then the young general appeared and slew his former master, breaking the resolve of the disloyal soldiers. The royal army was able to drive off the rebels and with the death of their leader, they broke and fled. The young general was appointed the Marshal of the King's Army and ordered to go and finish what had been started there.
He returned to the palace, intending to carry out the King's orders when he saw that one of the triplet girls had escaped from her room. Instead of escaping however, she had found her sister and the two of them were comforting each other. So instead of killing them he told them their parents were dead and sent them off to a convent for religious women. When the King returned, he lied and said that he had killed them and disposed of the bodies. The King, who was sick of violence, believed the story and after slaying the traitor's mother, considered his work done.
Years later, a much older King was celebrating one of the Kingdom's great feasts, a vast celebration to the Goddess of Athletes, Students, War and Victory. The center-piece of these games was a series of gladiatorial spectacles, where teams of gladiators fought their way through a bracket until one would emerge triumphant atop the Bone Hill. And all eyes were on a pair of masked sisters, known by their gladiator names Ink and Albedo, for their black and white outfits. They were new to the gladiator world but they quickly climbed the ranks due to their impressive fighting style, while their scandalous outfits and seductive posing earned them the adulation of the crowds.
Finally, the last match came and went and Ink and Albedo stood high atop a mound of corpses- soaked in blood and sweat. They laughed and waved to the crowds, then knelt for the final ceremony. At this point, it was tradition that the King himself would descend into the arena and crown the victors with wreathes of holly leaves. They would then be granted one gift of anything they desired from the crown, within reason of course.
After they were crowned, the King asked them what they wanted. To his surprise, they threw aside their wreathes and ripped off their masks, revealing a pair of identical faces, one that he had long thought gone. "No," he said in horror. "We ask for your death, Your Majesty," Albedo said. Ink then used her hatchet and took off his head.
"Bring out the Marshal!" Ink roared, holding the King's head up high. "Bring him out so he can pay for his crimes!" The King's bodyguards cried out in rage and stormed the arena, while the rest of the City Guard stationed nearby attempted to rush the Marshal and the King's Council back to the palace for safety. The sisters leaped into the fray and like women possessed hacked their way through dozens, if not hundreds of defenders, nobles and innocent bystanders. Whether they actually got their revenge or not is unknown and varies depending on the telling, much like the sister's names.
Mia's Abilities:
- As a free action on his turn, Mia's wielder can start to charge up an attack. This causes Mia to accumulate Topaz Charges. For each round that he charges the attack, Mia will gain +1 Topaz Charges. Then, on a hit against a creature, he can choose to expend as many Topaz Charges as he wishes. For each Topaz Charge spent, the creature hit by that attack takes +1 damage.
- At the end of the current battle, any Topaz Charges remaining are expended.
- For example, if Mia's wielder hits an enemy and expends 3 Topaz Charges than that enemy takes 1d6+Atk+3 damage.
Maya's Abilities:
- As a free action on his turn, Maya's wielder can mark a creature with her Mark of Aggrievement. From that point on, each time he hits an enemy that enemy will take bonus damage. On the first hit, he will take +1 damage, on the second hit +2, on the third +3 and so on until it maxes out at +6.
- Maya can only mark one creature at a time with her Mark of Aggrievement.
- If Maya's wielder hits a creature not marked by her Mark of Aggrievement, then the Mark vanishes and any bonus damage that might be done to that creature no longer applies. Even if the wielder re-marks that creature, he will have to start over from +1 bonus damage.
If Wielded by One:
- If both Sisters are wielded by one wielder, that wielder may make two attacks on his turn.
- He will do +1 bonus damage on a hit with the Sisters.
A great city is being plagued by a mysterious master thief who is said to have magical abilities, such as the ability to change form, turn invisible and walk through walls. They say he is a friend to the poor and an enemy of the nobility. Almost none of that is true. What is true is that there is a master thief, he is very good at what he does and he loves robbing people, mostly for the challenge of it. He's already stolen more money than he could ever spend. Another fact about him is that he's actually a fairly awful fighter- most of the legendary feats of combat attributed to him are instead from his second and bodyguard, a young prodigy who wields a pair of magical hatchets.
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Dire Strain/Penitent's Burden/Redemptor's Axe:
1d8+Atk
A beautiful blade, the head covered in beautiful silver scrollwork, while the handle is adorned with swirling designs depicting vines, flowers and many, many thorns. Yet despite the beauty of it's appearance, the wide blade and large spike at the back reveal the axe's sinister purpose.
Salvation can only be found through suffering. This was the credo of the Brothers of the Unredeemed, an order of Mage-monks who practiced non-violence, healing and torture. The Brothers were known for treating the sick, helping the poor and torturing the guilty. They would inflict gruesome and awful punishments on anyone who asked, but only if it was requested. If a King or High Priest wished to atone, he could contact the Brothers and ask them to torment him. The Brothers would do in a way they felt was appropriate, though they would take requests. If you wanted to be tortured by being repeatedly drowned and revived, or buried alive, or any other horrible thing, they would consent and do as you asked.
This was an insane and uncommon practice, but it was always safe, for the Brothers never hurt someone so badly that they died. They always restored those they punished to their previous state, leaving only a small scar that would never fade as a reminder of what their supplicant had endured. Still, this was one of their less common services. More often, they were brought in to help in cases of natural disaster, plague or in the aftermath of battles. And if a few guilty soldiers felt the need to be punished by the non-judgmental monks, who's business was that but theirs's?
One uncommon service the Brothers offered was the Redemptor's Blade. This was offered to men of violence who wished to atone for lives of battle. They would willingly bond themselves to one of these sympathetic weapons, which would inflict pain on them and prevent them from protecting themselves, as it enhanced the sensitivity of their skin so wearing armor was torturous, while dulling it to more pleasant sensations.
Those who bonded such a blade in the misguided belief that it would enhance congress found themselves quickly begging for it to be removed. Sometimes the Brothers would acquiesce, but just as often they refused, leaving the poor fool to complete the Redemptor's Challenge.
The Challenge of the Redemptor was what the Blade presented to you. Only when it was completed would the Blade release you from your oath. Until then, you were forced to wield it. This was a very difficult thing to do, not because it was physically difficult, for it either forced you to face death repeatedly or to confront yourself.
That was what the Blade represented- truth and a chance at atonement. But when a wicked ruler accidentally bonded one of the Redemptor's Blades, he found himself disgusted by himself. Rather than change, however, he sought out the Brothers and demanded they remove it. Knowing his reputation, the Brothers refused, hoping that the Blade would guide the ruler to reform himself. Instead he threw a fit and persecuted the Order, driving it to extinction.
He destroyed them all, casting down their monasteries one by one and interrogating all their leaders. Each either told him that it was impossible to break the Blade's hold on him or that he wouldn't, for the ruler deserved it. That only made him angrier and soon, the Brothers of the Unredeemed were no more and he was still trapped by their accursed Blade.
In his rage, he broke down and seizing a rock, attempted to smash the Blade to smithereens with it. Instead, as he struck the enchanted blade, the rock exploded on impact, sending shards of razor stone into his eyes and face. He was in hideous agony for weeks before he finally died, unmourned and unloved. It was only then, in death, that he made a small measure of atonement for the many crimes he had committed. Though if you were to summon his shade, he would surely deny such saccharine sentiments. Not that you would though- his shade would no doubt be as awful as he.
Abilities:
- When first picked up, Dire Strain will cause a vine tattoo adorned with thorns to form on the wielder's dominant hand. If the wielder touches a creature with the marked hand, he can either inflict agonizing pain or do 1d3 damage with a touch. This damage cannot be reduced by armor or spells, nor by natural resistances. Only a Damage Threshold can prevent this damage. This is called the 'Kiss of the Thorns'.
- Each time you use 'Kiss of the Thorns', it has a 20% of increasing the damage it causes increases. First it increases to 1d4, then 1d6, then 1d8, before capping out at 1d10. Each time it increases, the chance of it increasing further increases by an additional 20%.
- 1/Round, when attacked by an enemy in melee, you can activate 'Kiss of the Thorns' and force the creature that to make a Defense roll. You make an Atk roll, using 'Kiss of the Thorns' damage die. If you succeed and hit, the enemy takes that much damage.
- Additionally, each time the damage 'Kiss of the Thorns' causes increases, the vine tattoo spreads and causes your skin to become hyper-sensitive. First, you lose your ability to wear Heavy Armor, then Medium Armor, then Light Armor, then to carry a shield.
Curse of Dire Strain:
Dire Strain is cursed. When you pick it up, you will learn this. You won't know exactly how, but you will know it is cursed. Those who use it are cursed to die violent deaths. This curse can only be broken by fixing your five greatest mistakes and trying to make amends for them. Either that or slay five villains, each one which is more powerful than the last.
Dire Strain resides in a cave, waiting for the next person in need to atonement to find it. It can feel them approaching. Soon it will be used once again. Soon.
Thorncutter:
1d8+Atk
A plain metal axe, resembling a wood-cutter's axe. Instead of a wooden handle, it has one made of plain brass. This brass handle stained with sap. Plants subtly bend away from the axe as if they are unwilling to touch it.
The Druid Lady known as Briarheart terrorized the frontier barony of Heirophugi for many years, kidnapping children to indoctrinate, killing dogs and attempting to assassinate Magi, mathematicians and lumberjacks. She spread much terror and pain, but could never threaten the Barony itself. Until one day, after being chased deep into the uncharted forest by a mob of well-armed peasants with torches and dogs, she stumbled across a sacred glade.
A hidden shrine to the Nameless Gods of the Green, she found a strange item there, a nest of leaves with a dewdrop on them. The dewdrop seemed to be perpetually in the state of about to roll off, but it never did. She realized the great power that this item had then, commanding the ancient strength of the forest and the most primal power of nature, the power to change in order to better survive. With that, she realized her prayers had been answered and she laughed, praising her unknowable masters for their providence.
The changes began small, as they always do. A few animals who wandered too close to the woods went missing. Wolves, the people thought. Then a few children who went to play among the trees vanished as well. Cultists, the people thought, and armed themselves. Then they noticed the forest had moved subtly closer. No, it wasn't just their imagination.
The night it struck, it was awful. Deers with horns like knives and bears the size of carriages rushed from the shadows and smashed the feeble defenses erected to ward off bandits. Hue packs of wolves with poison in their saliva tore whole families to pieces and drove those who were only bitten into homicidal frenzies. The very trees themselves crushed houses and broke limbs with fallen boughs, or seized men with their branches and lifted them high up into the air, grinding them against their iron-hard bark until their trunks were stained red. The entire Wild marched to war and civilization was revealed to be a paper shield.
But all hope was not lost. For in the heart of the largest city, working in a shop that made furniture, a wood-worker's apprentice heard a voice from the fireplace that illuminated the space. "My Son," a voice called from deep within, "You have been chosen for a higher calling." The apprentice turned and to his horror, saw that it was the God of Craftsmen, peering out from among the flames. He threw himself face down and asked the man, "What must your unworthy servant do?" The God bade him pick up an axe and throw it into the fire. The apprentice did and as he watched, the axe was not consumed, but transformed. "Now go," the God commanded. "Save your people."
The apprentice reached into the flames and he was not burned. Withdrawing the axe, he found it had become a princely weapon, worthy of being wielded by a hero. And though he was no hero, he vowed to become one. He would be worthy of his destiny.
Briarheart had nearly won and was ecstatic with joy. She gloried in slaughter and destruction, smashing centuries old statues and using beautiful paintings to clean up after relieving herself. She was having trouble with gold and silver, so she melted it into huge, impractical blocks and buried it in places she hoped no one would ever find it. So when she heard that someone was fighting back, she wasn't concerned. Whoever this was, he wasn't the first and he probably wouldn't be the last. But she wasn't worried, she had beaten all the others. So she went to confront him.
When she found a spindly, lanky youth with the gawky proportions of adolescence and acne on his face, she laughed. She did not even notice his axe until he nearly took her head off with it. She still dodged it though, and sent her trees to crush him. But instead of making short work of him, her trees screamed and caught fire. They howled and burned, fleeing as phantom fire reduced them to charcoal.
She sent her beasts forward and they proved more effective, but they feared the fire of his axe. Enraged, she rushed to attack him. He swiped at her, but he missed, the tongues of flame touching her. To her surprise, she was not burned. She smiled gleefully, suddenly realizing his weakness. His fire could not harm her. All she had to do was dodge his big, clumsy swings and she could strike him down.
Lunging like a cat, she struck at the apprentice and soon had him stumbling back, her experience proving superior to his strange weapon and greater strength. He swung desperately, but she ducked under it and attacked him, her blade seeking his throat. Victory was hers! Her blade had almost touched his skin when he reached out desperately and seized the dewdrop around her throat, grasping desperately for anything. To both of their surprise, the dewdrop began to glow under his palm. Briarheart screamed in rage and anger. This could not be!
The amulet, the sacred artifact of her foul Gods was suddenly unmade and with it, her power. Briarheart's great bestial allies faded, disappearing back into the shadows of the Wild. The trees that moved and hated were still and silent once more, as if they had been growing in the middle of castles and city streets for a hundred years. And the great powers she had called upon to crush those who had defeated her in the past vanished, leaving her as she was. She was so distraught, she barely noticed when he took her head from her shoulders.
Abilities:
- 3/Day, the wielder can cause his axe to become engulfed in a ruddy flame. This flame glows and produces heat, but it only burns wood and objects made of wood. Putting your hand into it is uncomfortably hot, but not painful. Any wood this fire touches quickly catches alight, spreading rapidly, only burning wood and things made of wood. For example, this fire will easily burn wooden planks, paper and sawdust but it will refuse to burn straw, fabrics or lamp oil. This axe will remain engulfed in flames for 1 minute, after which it will stop. However, the fires ignited by Thorncutter will continue to burn until extinguished. They can be extinguished like any normal fire.
- 1/Day, by touching it, the wielder can charge a piece of wood with a coal of Thorncutter's fire. The piece of wood will begin to glow and heat up, before exploding into a blast of fire. This fire will consume the wood and do 2d6 damage to any wood within 30' of the charged piece of wood.
Thorncutter remained in the Barony of Heirophugi for many years, until a foolish prince sought to use it to finally destroy the Druid Circle that had plagued his people for generations. He took the axe and a group of loyal men into the forest, determined to best the evil that dwelled there once and for all. He was never seen or heard from again. Three weeks later, three survivors of a party of almost forty emerged from the woods, wounded, delirious and half-mad. "They could not unmake it," they spoke desperately, "So they bound him and it." They repeated this phrase desperately to anyone who came near them, until finally expiring several days later. To this day, no one knows what they meant.
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