Broken Chains

Puck himself wasn't sure what came into him when he decided to extend an olive branch towards the sword.

But he did, and in the end, that was all that counted.

After Puck spoke up, an uncomfortable silence reigned for some time before the sword suddenly started to laugh hysterically again. But only for a moment, then the sword calmed down again and answered in a calmer voice.

"Very well, I can forget your insults up to this point and I even can take mine back. But don't even think for a second I wouldn't prefer to have been found by someone or something else."

Puck, starting to get angry again, got back to his normal habits: "You stupid, stupid, hideous thing, I ..."

But as Puck started to gear up again the sword interrupted him in a dry tone: "I thought you made it already clear that we both like cursing."

Puck, having lost all his momentum, closed his mouth and went silent for a moment. Then instead of cursing on, like he had planned, he asked a question: "Would you like to tell me about your past?"

Zephyrian stayed silent for a long while before finally and without great preamble starting to tell Puck about its past.

"You should know, that swords normally don't have a conscious, and I only gained mine in a connection with a battle unlike any you could possible imagine. It was…"

The hooves of the wore horses on the rocky ground echoed like the drums of war over the vast planes.

Once upon a time great tent cities populated the planes, but not anymore.

Now, after years upon years of conflict nothing remained of those ancient societies.

And on this day, so the hope of many, the conflict would finally be resolved, as one faction eradicated the other and peace would be restored.

A foolish hope, afterall how could true peace follow upon a genocide, but a hope nothingless.

On one side there stood an army, as imposing as one could possibly imagine. In straight lines soldiers stretched from horizon to horizon and great war machines stood on platforms between them.

On the helmet of that army, one man stood, in contrast to the normal man of this army he wasn’t protected by one of the standardized grey amours.

Instead, this man stood in a crimson amour seemingly too large for any normal man but fitting to his frame. In his hands he held a sword similar too large for any normal man.

This sword, as black as the night, seemed to hum and vibrate in exultation for the battle. Nothing would stop it on its rampage.

Opposite to this army another one stood, no, it already charged.

Upon an unfathomably large number of warbeasts an army came rushing, every member of this army different from the next, and each warbeast seemingly unique.

Instead of in straight lines, this army moved in an uncontrollable flock.

And instead, out of millions of human soldiers, this army was glued together out of an alliance of the tribes that had lived on these planes for eons.

On the helmet of this army though, also stood a human. It was a slightly short woman, that seemed to be misplaced in this seen of an impending war.

But in her hands, she held a weapon. It was a weapon all her enemies had learned to fear a long time ago. A sword, seemingly entirely mundane except for a single jewel embedded in its pommel.

As she swung the sword in a wide ark toward the enemy lines the heavens seemed to shatter, and the battle began.

The Battle went on for days upon days. Each Minute giving harvest to an ever-greater number of the dead.

For a long time, it seemed unclear who would come out on top. But as time went on, and the battel raged something became clear.

The champion of the beast hordes, Nymaria was no match to the Crimson Warlord.

Even though her power was great, unfathomable even for any normal person, she still was outmatched.

When Nymaria and the Crimson Warlord clashed for the first time, it was exactly in the middle of the battleground. Each of their clashes killed many bystanders, but these bystanders were of both sides and so the impact on who would win was small.

But as seconds turned to minutes and hours to days Nymaria slowly got pushed back into her own ranks and the causalities became one-sided.

When the Crimson Warlord managed to push Nymaria back for the first time, the tribesman where there to help her in her fight.

The strongest fighters of the tribesman charged fearlessly and as such Nymaria gained ground again.

But the price was great, each time the tribesman needed to help Nymaria, many of their greatest warriors fell.

After three days it seemed set in stone. The united tribes would lose, but they were great warriors, and their honor ran deep.

As such, only a small part of them fled to protect the future. The rest fought on, to fight for honor and to kill their enemies but also to honor the sacrifice of Nymaria.

When the battle had nearly reached its end and the remaining warriors were wading through oceans of blood and the dead Nymaria made one final decision.

She would preserve a seed of hope, a seed of the spirit of their battle. So that may one day someone would exact revenge.

With a desperate cry and an eruption of power Nymaria threw the Crimson Warlord away for one last time.

Then with a single tear of regret running down her bloody cheek she gave her most loyal companion, her sword, the fastest remaining tribe member and told him to flee with it and never let it fall in the hands of their enemies.

Then without her weapon, alone in a crimson ocean of blood, and facing her crimson enemy, she made her final stand.