Heron-hilted black rolaren longsword

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A heron-hilted black rolaren longsword was sold at the Ebon Gate 2009 auction.

Loresong

Your surroundings shift and you stand atop a tower in the middle of a fortress built of black stone. In the distance, a glittering city sits on an island in a river, while around you soldiers stand in formation. Between them stand mages of varying race and gender. One steps forward, the hilt of the longsword pointed toward you and speaks, "Assume now, Commander, the Guardianship of the Jewel of the Empire, where all that is and was magnificent began and now ends...."

Surroundings shift and hordes of humanoids surround you, as well the gruesome symphonic noise of battle. You move with uncommon grace amongst them, your black longsword an extension of your arm, and from your lips you scream, "Elanith with me, we do not fall this day!" Behind you a standard-bearer waves a banner of blue and buff, and the battle begins to ebb in your favor as your surroundings shift again.

Surroundings shift and you find yourself kneeling in the dark in a garden, cradling the longsword between your legs. Beside you is a statue of a woman in the middle of a pool and voices carry from nearby shadows, "It is treason. She cares too much for the city ... we cannot tolerate such devotion at OUR expense." Another voice speaks, "...then something must be done." You feel your knuckles whitening around the hilt of your blade. Things shift....

You shift, and once again you are battle. This time the desperation not so great; the day is nearly won. You stand on the corpse of an enemy, directing the battle, and pause to snarl at a soldier, "If the Mages wish the Citadel safe, they can do it themselves!" The soldier, frightened, ducks away. You turn back to the battle, only to feel something pierce your side. You spin to stare in shock at the standard-bearer and his bloodied dagger. Again, things shift.

Things shift a final time. You're cold. You cannot move. You sense you're lying on your back and your longsword rests upon your chest, its tip nestled between your feet. Someone has placed your hands upon the hilt. Soldiers stand at attention, and a slab of marble begins to move into your field of vision above you. You hear the same voice from the darkness, "...yes, a foreigner will replace her. He has interesting theories on re-organizing the garrison, so I hear." Familiar surroundings return.