View source for Rust-pitted heavy gornar falchion

{{H4HItem
|short=a rust-pitted heavy gornar falchion
|show=Scored by years, perhaps centuries, of abusive neglect and strenuous violent application, the remnant of this ancient sword is if anything more dangerous now with its coating of rust and jagged scars.  Attempts have been made to clean away the layers of crusted filth, but dried black rivulets trail away from the wounds where grinding wheels have sliced deep into the gornar, as if the blade itself had bled.
|1=Dates to 4842, a battle between [[Faendryl]] demons and imperial soldiers. Stats:<br>+15, vibration flares 
|loresong=As your voice focuses into the falchion, it seems to expand and envelop you. Blazing flares of light condense and then resolve into a vision

Gouts of flame and fluid pierce the clouds of smoke on the battlefield, randomly flying from the raging melee stretched before you. The curtain of combatants parts, a channel opening through the bloody fray which you are propelled through. Hewing necks and limbs like errant blades of grass, gliding amidst the writhing warrior masses, your song of bloodlust keens with surging power and desire.

Wailing as your edge splits the air, the song made staccato by brief bites through armored foe, energy pulses from your pommel to point. Suddenly, the grip on your hilt loosens, your mighty slash falters, and you fall to the ground. Your wielder crumples beside you, lifeless, but there is no sadness. The dance must continue, but yet, there you lie. Stepped on, bled on from inflictions not of your blade, you blaze in furious need for the fray, until the blood-choked soil slows its pounding and silence reigns.

The weakness of the grip that closes around your hilt is immediately apparent, and the hold is limp and clumsy. Your tip is thrust into the remains of a wooden shield a few times without skill or care, and then bypassing all ceremony you are hurled upon a cart loaded with less significant, passionless, armaments. You feel affronted, diminished, yet power and murderous thirst still project from your gornar, though no ear understands.

Tied in rolls, stuffed in barrels, even hung upon a wall like a crucified traitor, time is less interpretable when you neglect your purpose. Passed from one unworthy palm to the next, your once keen edge dulling from insipid use as a tool or toy, you can still feel the patient surety that soon you will be recalled to your destiny.

Time continues to dodge the bolt. Need has twisted under the pressure of wasted years, and now perhaps you would even turn on a wielder for the opportunity of blood. As the life around you dies in disgusting natural ways, never more violent than perhaps a passing of wind in the final relaxing moment, you are shuffled deeper and deeper into the dusty storages.

Mislaid and wasted away by the passing years, a thirst born white hot by the forge now cooled to a memoryless sentience in your unmajestic repose, a vagrancy of spirit is your only sentiment remaining. A somber stoicism deeper than the wandering pitted scars of rust and decay dwindles within, a note hung long after the end of a sonnet, retreating into the darkest shadows of timelessness. Lost to all, to being, the final thread of hatred snuffs quietly into nonexistence. The sliver of urnon forged within your blade quiets, and you are only a sword.
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