Obsidian: The Black Heart of Aran'sha

"A stone knife? Are you kidding me? That's the best you have?" The stranger snorted, but the trader just grinned, a flash of white against his sun-kissed skin.
“My friend,” he said, his voice a low whisper, “this is no mere stone. This is a shard of shadowglass - a Kaharan obsidian knife, forged by the Ki’nashor, the mages of the black stone themselves. They say it is born from the heart of fire, imbued with primal fury of the wasteland itself. Each blade sings a different song, they claim – a song of power, of loss, of journeys yet to come. It sings to the souls of those who carry it, a glimpse at fate, of what could be, a caress of the land itself. Worth a king's ransom, a thousand silver pieces, some would say.”

The adventurer's brown eyes widened as the weapons trader drew the knife from its ornate sheath. It was a work of art, the blade the deep, reflective black of a starless desert night, split by white veins of frozen lightning. He'd heard whispers of those blades, tales of their unparalleled sharpness, and the strange, secret rituals the stonesmiths used to bind the songs within.
  The trader flicked his wrist, and the blade whispered through the air. A thick hemp rope, hanging nearby, parted cleanly, the severed ends falling to the floor with a soft thud. A faint, almost inaudible hum, like the echo of wind chimes through a high mountain pass, seemed to ring from the blade as it sliced through the air. With a flourish, he offered the blade to this customer, his eyes lit with a glint of shrewd amusement.
  The wanderer took the knife carefully, his breath catching in his throat. He hefted it, expecting it to feel clumsy and rough. Instead, it molded perfectly in his hand. He ran a finger – carefully – along the edge. It felt impossibly sharp, the edge razor thin. He closed his eyes for a moment, and he thought he could almost hear a faint whisper, a high-pitched note resonating from the blade – a single, clear note, like a bird’s call in the dead of night.
  He hesitated, his gaze flickering to the worn leather pouch at his belt. A king's ransom...whatever it was, it was going to cost him all he had - maybe more. He could outfit himself with decent gear for half that, maybe even hire a guide into the unexplored regions to the east, finally exploring the forbidden jungles. But the blade kept calling to him, the song echoing in his heart, whispering like the ghost of a forgotten melody..this wasn't just a knife. "How much?" he asked, his voice a little hoarse.
  The trader smiled, a glint in his eye. "A king's ransom, as I said, for a blade forged from the black and touched by the land. But I sense a…kinship in you, my friend. A kinship with the sands, a thirst for what lies beyond, a yearning to hear the whispers of the obsidian's heart.You are one to understand the value of such a piece. Let's say…five hundred silver pieces. A small price to pay for a song of glass and the beginning of a new story."
  The adventurer's eyes widened. Still a fortune, but one he could afford. He would make that back in a year if he was lucky. He nodded slowly. "Done." He knew he'd be living on dried rations and river water for months, but as he clutched his hands around the sheath, he already knew this was worth far more than comfort, worth more than anything but the chance to feelthe dreams whispered in the blade’s song.

  Kaharan Obsidian,shadowglass,”The black heart” - these are the names whispered in awe for a wonder without compare: a union of primal forces and arcane craftsmanship. Born from the treacherous, glass-strewn heart of the obsidian wastes, this volcanic glass, shimmering with abyssal darkness and frozen lightning, is forged by fire and secret magic into blades without equal. Rumours whisper, each blade, imbued with primal fury and arcane power, sings a unique song -a haunting melody of power, loss, or fates yet to be born, etched forever into the very grain of the weapon itself.    

Born from fire and ash

  The raw material for these blades is a deadly prize, found only in the desolate heart of the obsidian wastes, a primal scar that marks the continent to the west. Here, the ground, a treacherous expanse of black glass and ash, crunches softly underfoot, a constant reminder that the land does not give its riches willingly. The sky is perpetually choked with soot, the air thick with the acrid tang of sulfur and the metallic scent of iron, mingled with the dry, dusty smell of ash. The ground rumbles and shakes constantly—a deep, guttural tremor that echoes across the wasteland—a portent to the frequent, explosive volcanic eruptions of rage that shake the fiery mountain guardians of this place.   Within this perilous landscape, desperate miners risk their lives every day, their battered picks ringing out against the obsidian in a constant struggle for survival. Each swing is a gamble: the shards, though impossibly sharp, are brittle, and a careless movement can mean a crippling injury—or worse. The hissing of steam vents and the distant, terrifying roars of volcanic eruptions are steady companions during their grim labor. All the while, scorching winds howl relentlessly, scouring their skin with stinging dust and ash.   It is a wasteland where few willingly dwell, save for the miners driven by desperation and the treasure seekers lured by whispers of riches. Many who venture into the Wastes are "lost to the black lands," succumbing to the elements, the sudden, violent eruptions, or the insidious "Wandering", a plague of the mind that twists sanity, muddles the senses, and finally leaves its victims wandering into the wastes to die, shrouded in funeral clouds of ash.  

The forging of the heart

  The raw obsidian, carefully loaded onto sturdy camels, is transported by heavily guarded caravans - a long, perilous journey through the scorching desert - to the city of Ri'kahar. Here, within the ancient workshops of the stoneshapers, the Ki'nashor, or "mages of the black stone," hold the secret to its transformation. These artisans, bound by magical oaths—etched as swirling crimson tattoos that pulse with raw power—guard their craft steadfastly.
Within their guild halls, the air crackles with heat and the scent of ozone as the Ki'nashor perform their intricate ritual invocation upon primal and arcane forces. Molten obsidian, glowing with an intense, otherworldly white light that sears the eyes, shimmers and writhes as if in pain while the air is charged with arcane energies- a volatile, barely controlled thunderstorm.

Clad in the traditional abyssal robes of their order, adorned with symbols of fire and shadow, the smiths chant in a sonorous voice, their tattoos pulsing in time with the energies of obsidian and air alike, drawing upon the primal energy that echoes through the chamber. Raw power surges through the halls,building evermore, culminating after hours or days in a sudden, intense burst of controlled magic - leaving behind a single, perfectly crafted obsidian blade, singing with a single, pure, piercing, high pitched note - the first note of the blade’s song.

However, mastery of this arcane process comes at a cost, as the Ki'nashor pay a heavy price for their power. Channeling such potent magical energy into the obsidian not only leaves them exhausted for months, it also destabilizes their ability to manipulate other forms of magic, a sacrifice that earns them both high esteem and handsome rewards within the rigid hierarchy of Ri'kahar.  

Lighter Than Air, Sharper Than Steel

  Forged with arcane magic and rare materials, these blades are exceedingly rare as only a handful are forged each passing year. And they fetch a king's ransom, if they are for sale at all - but each one is well worth their price.

Shadowglass blades are exceptionally hard, nearly impossible to melt again, and possess a gleaming, impossibly sharp edge capable of slicing through steel as if it were butter. Beyond their lethal sharpness, they are incredibly light - a seasoned swordsman, accustomed to the heft of a bronze blade, might find himself momentarily off balance, surprised by the effortless grace with which he can now move. The true magic of these blades, however, lies in the song imbued within each blade - a haunting melody that whispers to their wearers of power, loss, or destinies yet to unfold. The source of this magic remains a mystery: is it the lingering echo of their arcane forging, a resonance with the wielder's soul, or the blade itself awakening, driven by some unknown purpose?"