hex_m_hell

In the land Kroy, there is a living sword. The people of the land worship the sword, and obey any who hold it. For they who holds the sword cannot die so long as they wield it. But one cannot wield it forever.

The sword demands that it may only be held by the greatest warrior, one who can raise an army and lead the people of the Kroy, the people of the sword, to victory. So it is that the blade demands that it be won by combat during each night of the blood moon.

There is a place on the holy mountain where sits a stone, a stone on to which the blade must be set before the blood moon rises. Only there can it lie, or shall it awaken a great beast who will seize it and bring ruin to the land. Then on that night will compete challengers and their armies, under the blood moon, for control of the sword and the land.

Generations have lived under the blade, have worshiped it's power, have stood with challengers and kings. The blade has reigned over peace and ruin, benevolent and monstrous, unwavering.

As night began to fall, many of Kroy felt both terror and hope. For it had been, since the last blood moon, the blade of Murtp. He had ridden in from the low country and promised, with twisted words, to spill the blood of those who weakened Kroy and lay waste to those who threatened it. But his was a reign of terror. For two years had the people starved, had they hid in fear, from Murtp and his horde. He promised to slaughter all who rose against him, all who stood with any challenger to the blade.

Yet on that night Demokalies the Younger chose to stand against Murtp, and with great oration called the fearful to unite. He promised to sheath the blade, but for this call to justice. Against Murtp and his marauders would the blade, once seized, be drawn.

And so it was, that the living sword, once again in the hands of a just king, did cease to bring such suffering to the people of Kroy. He chased the marauders to the edge of the kingdom, pitchfork to blade, that they cowered and hid in the swamps once again. This blade they have coveted, that they have held before, was once again beyond their grasp.

There had been those, who in these times of great suffering, had questioned the faith of the living sword. They had asked, “Can this blade plow our fields or harvest them? Can it thresh our grain? Is it right that we should allow ourselves to worship such a weapon, that retains its purpose even in the best hand?” Others still, in hushed whisper and only after wandering an ale too far, could sometimes be heard saying, “Let us rise together, without a challenger, as the next moon rises. Let us seize the blade to plunge into a blacksmith's fire. Let it be pounded into a tool that cannot be used as a weapon, a living tool that we can share, to bring us all prosperity.”

But with the blade in the hands of justice, such words no longer found ears. Thoughts of marauders slipped from their minds, and Kroy slept soundly. But the lowlanders did not, for the blade hungers for suffering and it calls to them.