The blades were forged under the unique combination of human magic and Krolvin weaponary expertise. The weapons had the power to send Krolvin souls Demonic. Colgan, a half-krolvin wielded one when he killed Khortal the Bloodmaster.
Behind the Scenes
- Colgan draws his black-bladed falchion. It makes a strange sound as it slides from his sheath, like a whispered curse in the sharp krolvin tongue.
The Loresong of the Krolbane
"The entire world seems to turn to a murky green as I focused my song on the black-bladed falchion. Gradually, the green resolves itself into a stormy sea. A scattering of small, stony islands dot the horizon. A small galley, storm-battered, is tossed crazily by the high seas. Its single sail, torn and tattered by the wind, flutters like a shroud."
"The sound of fighting reaches my ears...the screams of the wounded and dying, the sharp clash of weapons, the grunts and curses of those still struggling. On the deck of the galley a small knot of men in armor try hopelessly to fend off the attack of the raggedly-dressed men and women in chains. As they fight, the galley crashes into a shoal! The mast collapses and the small ship settles on the shoal like some wounded animal. The next wave lifts it again, slamming the vessel once more into the shoal, turning it into nothing more than scraps of lumber."
"Men and women...some in armor, some in chains...scrabble ashore. Too frightened and bone-weary to continue their fight, they look about themselves. A few hundred yards away, on another rocky island, they can see figures standing on the beach...watching. Despite the wind and the pounding rain, it's clear the watchers are krolvin."
"Falchions are really nice for ticklin' trolls and kings Or scratching the throat of those we hate as a crazy bardess sings."
As she sings, Esserae turns her face aside and flinches slightly. Then the soft tone of her song gradually takes on a hopeful sound.
"As I continue your song, the world turns a fiery red. Gradually the red resolves itself into a group of funeral pyres. Bodies are barely visible among the flames. In the background are the remains of earlier pyres...some still smoldering, others months old."
"A human wearing scraps of battered armor steps forward. His hands are empty. He unstraps the remains of his armor, letting it drop on the ground. As the last scrap of armor drops, a middle-aged krolvin approaches. His hands are also empty and he too discards his armor. They approach each other warily. The krolvin clears his throat, then speaks. "We can continue to fight each other until we are all dead," he says. The human nods and says, "Or we can put aside our war. We can join together, that both our peoples might survive." The krolvin stares at the human. "And live to seek vengeance on those who have put us here," he says."
"Hesitantly, the human and the krolvin reach out and shake each others hand. "So it shall be," the krolvin says. "Aye, so it shall," the human agrees."
"Krolvin warships float like soap scum, black on the water like a well-oiled falchion blade. Seeing this visions of krolvin and humans is making me wonder how Colgan was made."
As Esserae sings softly to the falchion her voice takes on a strangely restful rhythm.
"As I sing, the world turns dark. The darkness gradually resolves itself into the interior of a cave. A small cooking fire casts weird shadows on the uneven surface of the walls. Outside, a storm howls and moans. Sitting near the fire, a krolvin woman holds a baby to her breast. She hums a strangely rhythmic tune and runs her blue-tinted fingers along the baby's cheek."
"From the back of the cave comes a shower of sparks. A human works the bellows of a crude forge. When the forging fire is white hot, he steps to the smaller cooking fire. The krolvin woman hands him the baby, then takes up a hammer and tongs. "With our skill at the forge and your magics," the woman says, "we can create weapons sure to defeat the brakakt who marooned us here." "We may not live to see it," the man says, "but our children will." The woman shrugs and says, "Our children, or the children of our children, or their children after them. We shall be avenged." The man nods, paying more attention to the baby in his arms than to the woman. He begins to hum the strangely rhythmic krolvin lullaby."
"Brakakt is a type of ale, which cuts like a falchion when hurled from the throat. An invective very useful to shout at a castle wall when drowning in the moat."
A single tear trickles down Esserae's cheek as she sings to the falchion.
"As I continue your song, the world turns blue. Gradually the blue resolves itself into a placid bay beneath a clear and peaceful sky. An oddly-shaped vessel...too fine to be a raft but too crude to be a boat...floats in the middle of the small bay. Four oars line each side. From the stern juts a large, awkwardly-rigged tiller. A mast is steeped at a sharp angle. The sail is furled, and eight half-krolvin men and women row the vessel slowly out to the sea. The tillerman looks back to the shore, lined with people, and gives a slow, solemn wave. On his hip is a sheathed weapon."
"Half-krolvin children huddle around half-krolvin parents. A few old, tottering humans and krolvin watch the vessel make its way to sea. In their eyes...their ancient, heavy-lidded eyes...is a welter of emotion. Hope and fear, joy and sorrow, determination and resignation, pride and shame."