Retribution

Reaching down Fable stuck his hand into the ancient collapsed tree trunk, nearly up to his shoulder. With his fingertips he could feel something cold and textured. Shifting his reach a bit further the object was silky smooth. Letting out a small yelp he yanked his arm from the hole. Looking at his hand a drop of blood fell to the parched ground. The cut was perfectly straight. Nothing natural could have done that. Quickly he shoved his hand back into the opening, fingers grasping at what lay at the bottom of the hole. Body tense as his palm turned to fire. Fable clenched his jaw because he was determined not to let go. His grip was painful but firm as he removed the item from the hollow.

Fingers smeared with damp earth contrasted the pristine object in his hand. Almost glowing as the untarnished silver and ivory blade looked utterly out of place in the dark and wretchedly diseased surroundings. The exquisite beauty of it was painful to see; delicate detailed silver leafy vines covered the ivory handle, a level of craftsmanship perhaps once known to the Elves yet no one living could recreate it. The blade was sheer perfection. Vines from the handle continued onto the impeccable smooth blade, flawlessly etched as if it had naturally grown. Tendrils surrounding a script he only recognized from the scant few remaining examples left around these ruins. This writing however was still intact, the first he had ever seen. Arches in the area were once decorated with it but had long since been scratched out before being eroded away into almost nothingness by time. If Fable didn’t know better he could easily imagine the blade had just been completed by a master weaponsmith.

Struck speechless at the item’s indescribable beauty as he turned it over in his hand. The value of such a find is incalculable. Fable had never known or heard of its like. In all probability the blade was an artifact from the Age of the God’s Deceit when the Elves lost everything as the spiteful Gods became jealous of their creation.

The blade shifted in his hand, cutting fiercely into his palm. Nearly dropping the artifact as the pain burned again, this time he saw what he couldn’t before. The blade itself turned black as obsidian and the vines flushed a pale red from his blood. Staring at the remarkable transformation, Fable could not shake the unsettling tingly feeling creeping up the back of his neck, sensing the blade staring back.

What fable could not read though it was clearly etched into the blade was the single word ‘Retribution’ in ancient Elvish.