Type: Weapon – Longsword
A curving black-and-gold longsword with a lion motif on the pommel. When draw from its scabbard, the blade transforms into brilliant blue energy that carves through non-living matter.
Brilliant – The sword’s blade is made of energy, rendering armor useless. However, the energy is ineffective against undead, constructs, or any creature that is not made of living tissue.
Aona Rayle, an elven paladin who lived five-hundred years ago, had been raised as a pampered noble. Though she received the call to Paladinhood at an early age, her wealthy parents used their power to keep her out of harm’s way.
When an experiment by the mad high-elven sorcerer Firimel opened a rift to a demon realm, Aona’s homeland was overwhelmed by an army of fiends. Town after town fell, until the elves barricaded themselves and their last defenders into an ancient castle, a crumbling remnant of glory days long past. As the fel hordes beat upon the doors of the castle, the high-elven wizards discovered a last-ditch solution that might save them from annihilation.
A portal, located beneath the catacombs of the castle. A cold stone ring, laced with runes from a forgotten language. With no other option, the wizards began their ceremony.
As the wizards began to chant, the demon horde grew stronger, more wrathful, crashing through gate after gate, attempting to slaughter the elves before they could escape. Aona Rayle, the last high-elven paladin, due more to the machinations of her wealthy parents then skill, rushed to action.
Aona took command of the last of the elven soldiers and posted them in a small corridor, herself at the front, facing the oncoming demon charge to buy their people time to escape. The demons came, a neverending stream, but the elves would not relent. The battle lasted two hours, and the elven warriors gave not a single foot of ground against the ravenous horde. Not until they were torn apart, one by one, their voices locked in screams of righteous fury, did they relent. And Aona Rayle, whom her childhood friends had nicknamed “Ariel” was the final elf to fall, her body glowing, rippling with the divine energy of her god.
Reveling in her first and final chance to do battle the forces of evil, Ariel held the corridor when all of her men had died. They would not pass her, they would not defeat her. She stood in the smallest corridor and choked it with the corpses of the monsters until the last of the elves escaped into the portal.
When the last child slipped through the gate, Ariel smiled, held her sword up, and drove it through her own heart with a prayer to her god and a smile on her lips.
When her high-elven peoples arrived at a verdant forest on a distant world, they closed the portal as quickly as they could. And as the shimmering blue portal faded away, they discovered a strange thing: a sword, embedded to the hilt in a fresh mound of turned earth. They recognized it as the blade of Aona Rayle, a spoiled girl who’d taken up the mantle of a paladin to while away the bored, luxurious days of a wealthy socialite.
On the blade, in ancient elven, were the words: “Here lies Ariel, Righteous Scion. Fear this name, for it is the light in the darkness.”
As the confused elves walked forward, a young boy gripped the handle and tore it from the dark, rich earth. The blade, as it pulled from the ground, erupted in blue flames that raced along the handle.
The elves took the blade and kept it, passing it only to the greatest heroes and saviors of the ages, remembering ever the name of Ariel, the candle in the deep.
Story So Far . . .