Horoma, the Dark Blade of Hellfire

Horoma, the self-proclaimed Dark Blade of Eternal Hellfire, is a finely crafted sword, roughly the length of a longsword though much lighter and less thick. The blade portion of the weapon itself consists of an alloy of metals mixed with obsidian, resulting in a black color. The hilt on the other hand is made of pure silver, which is a peculiar choice given the weapon's origins.
Horoma is the name of the sentient being within said weapon. She is unable to move her material form herself, but is able to send visions and feelings at times to nearby individuals, and even communicate with them telepathically provided that there is physical contact. In her own memories, she has always been contained in the form a sword, an instrument of battle for mighty devils to wield. Given these dreamlike memories, and memories of her time in the city of Dis, she associates with and individualizes herself if not as an actual devil but at least part of the society of the Hells and it's ideals. Despite not really knowing whether she could be considered a devil herself she very much considers them the superior race to any other and the preferred wielder.

Story

Horoma was bored. While there is no difference between day and night in Hell, time is still tracked, and it for the most part flows at an equal speed to that of the material planes. And the last few days had been extremely uneventful. This was, of course, not uncommon in the slightest. Her very existence over the last however-many centuries mostly consisted of lying on a bright-red velvet pillow in a display case. This particular attraction could be found in “The Vibrant Anguish”, an infernal boutique located in the storefronts of the Iron City of Dis.
There she lay, untouched and unmoved for periods of time that could be described as human lifetimes. Only very infrequently would a customer, most commonly an upper-class devil, venture into the store and actually be interested in perhaps purchasing the dark blade. That’s what her physical form was. A long, black sword with a silver hilt. How she had gained consciousness and a certain amount of sentience was not something Horoma knew. She often had distant, fragmented memories of a form of existence other than the current one. Scenes of battle, bloodshed and triumph. Or perhaps they were visions of events yet to come; all she could do was remain hopeful.
As far as she remembered, she had always been in the display case. Barring the few occasions the boutique’s owner, a rakshasa fiend by the name Saban, took her out to present the blade to his customers. As physical contact was the only way for a sentient object like herself to communicate with other creatures, Horoma took every opportunity to first demand, and when it became apparent the approach didn’t work, even beg for a different life; a life of thrill, excitement, and action. The answer was the same every time. “That’s up to the customer.”
...Yet none would purchase her, and never would she see the world outside of the store.
It wasn’t all bad, though. It could have definitely been worse. She could have been the only piece of weaponry retaining consciousness in The Vibrant Anguish. As it stood, there were two other such items in the store, preventing her from being too lonely. Sharing similarities, they could communicate telepathically with one another.
Across the room, on a weapon rack on the back wall, was a mighty large great-axe. The axe shared very much a similar fate as Horoma, having been for sale for as long as it remembered. However, it had once been purchased and taken outside the boutique. Unfortunately for the weapon, the buyer had quickly run out of patience listening to its blabbering and had thrown it straight into river Styx, from where Saban after some negotiation with the Ferryman had reclaimed it to his collections. Unlike Horoma, the axe had no recollection of a ‘name’ and was simply referred to as “Axe” in the conversations between the three.
The third sentient object for sale in the store very much did have a name though, a name Horoma could never forget. Not because it was unforgettable, but because she had heard it repeated millions of times. Located in the same weapons rack as the great-axe, but on the opposite end, Superbius Altus made sure everyone knew its name. Unfortunately for Horoma, in their case ‘everyone’ only consisted of her and Axe.
Superbius, unlike the other two, had full memory of his past all the way to its creation. It was a quarterstaff enchanted and named by a rather eccentric wizard from the material plane, who after a series of unfortunate circumstances found himself being eternally tortured in Mentiri, the prisons beneath the city. The staff, along with his other worldly belongings had been forcefully taken from him and after a few trades and negotiations, Superbius had ended up here. Due to its arrogance and personality, it was even less likely to be purchased than the other two, and the rakshasa could often be heard cursing his lapse in judgment acquiring such an item in the first place.
There had been a few customers today, mostly local succubi who hadn’t actually come to buy anything, but instead to spread rumors along the city. They had mentioned something about the lord of Dis, arch-devil Dispater, growing more and more paranoid as of late and isolating himself further and further in his Iron Tower. This wasn’t entirely new information, and the idea of a possible clash between Dispater and Baalzebul, the Lord of the Seventh, had been brewing for a while. Axe and Superbius had been listening closely, arguing with each other about who in their opinion was in the right in the conflict, the origin of which even the rulers themselves had likely forgotten by now.
Horoma wasn’t naive and knew enough of the local politics of Hell that a full-on war was unlikely to take place between the two regions, as whoever was the one blamed for such an event would bear all the consequences in front of Asmodeus, the Supreme Master of the Nine Hells. And he was definitely not someone to be trifled with. If he wanted relative stability, none had the courage to defy him. In fact, Baalzebul had already made that mistake once, and as punishment had his natural form transformed into that of a filth-covered giant slug. Thus, the conflict would likely never see a true culmination, and instead, the two devils would in turns send assassins after the other’s close allies in attempts to force them to make the first major aggressive move.
Nonetheless, the three weapons still kept up hopes of something larger actually happening, as the unrest could spice up their lives as well. Potentially provide an opportunity for a life outside the confined space of the boutique. Horoma herself was appalled and disgusted by the way the situation was being handled. She hated how political everything had become. Her strong belief was that the issue should be settled on the battlefield, with the ones stronger and more powerful emerging victorious from the carnage and gore. Just like in her dreams.
It was the end of the workday, and Saban was closing up shop to go spend time in his favorite, wicked pleasure center in town, the Garden of Delights. And pleasurable it was, at least for the wealthy and the influential, and while some parts of the rakshasa’s collection were unlikely to ever be sold, he was still running a respectable business by fiendish standards. For the less outstanding devils and those unfortunate non-native citizens of Dis that happened to get lured in by the Garden’s luxurious exteriors, it quickly proved to be a very perilous environment. After all, it was ultimately an establishment for satisfaction, and everyone knows a devil’s favorite pastime is the torture of innocent souls, a desire which the staff was more than glad to supply.
As the door closed, Horoma retracted her senses and awareness of her surroundings, entering a state where the dreams she preferred were able to take over. Soon she found herself on the vast battlefields of Avernus, slicing and sundering the invading demon hordes from the depths of the Abyss. While she could not see her wielder, Horoma could tell that it was a very skilled and powerful warrior. Her fantasizing was cut short as she felt a sudden shift in temperature. She was moving! Though this was nothing like the gentle touch of the merchant she had gotten used to, but instead someone with far sweatier palms.
This ‘someone’ was in a hurry. As Horoma began sensing the environment around her properly again, she saw a pale male humanoid nervously looking about the store, holding the dark blade in his right hand. There were scars, burns and wounds and other clear signs of him having undergone ‘treatment’ in the depths of the Mentiri all over him. Some of the wounds were very recent, and the man was limping as he frantically moved about the store seemingly looking for something specific.
Horoma wasn’t certain whether to extend her inner voice to the mind of this individual or not, now that a physical link had been established. It was likely this poor soul had no idea it wasn’t just an ordinary sword that he had picked up for self-defense. While this person was far from the ideal wielder, this was her opportunity! And, to his credit, he had somehow managed to make it out of the prisons alive. Human or fiend, it mattered not to Horoma, as long as she could see some action. The thought of corrupting him to serve as her vessel once the situation stabilized also crossed her mind, but she wasn’t sure how that would work in practice.
For now, it was in her best interest they get out of there as soon as possible, as pursuers were sure to follow. Horoma wasn’t quite sure how she could help, apart from cutting them to pieces of course, but she soon realized that her faith in the survival of this silly mortal might be deserved after all. The man had found Saban’s collection of brass rods, capable of shifting planes. She sent a very subtle message to the man’s subconscious, prompting him to pick the one with the destination “The Material Plane” inscribed in infernal. The other option led to somewhere in the pits of the Elemental Chaos, a place neither of them would survive very long.
While the prison escapee had been rummaging through the boutique, Axe and Superbius had been screaming to try to get his attention. Of course, since they both knew their voices would never reach without physical contact, their messages were more directed towards Horoma. They pleaded and begged her to try and influence him, to take not only the sword but the other weapons as well. “Pick Superbius Altus, the superior weapon of mass destruction!”. Sadly for them, Horoma was unwilling to take any risks.
As the panicking yet determined to live man scrambled together the rest of the necessities for the teleportation spell, the black sword responded to her two longtime companions: “I, Horoma, the Dark Blade of Eternal Hellfire, promise that when I’m done conquering the world I will return, and make sure you will be wielded by the finest and most suitable warriors!”. And so, the floor underneath began to shimmer as the two began their journey through the many planes of existence. Just as they were about to disappear, several barbazu devils stormed their way into the boutique, only a short moment too late to intercept the incantation and drag the man back to the Bastille of Flesh to exact ferocious punishment.
Horoma felt a new sense of freedom as the two traveled through the different worlds. She could also feel the passage taking its toll on her human, who was already weakened from the wounds caused by the barbazus’ glaives. As abruptly as it had begun, their trip suddenly came to a stop. It was dark, and while Horoma didn’t rely on light to sense her surroundings, it was difficult to tell where they were. As far as she knew, the spell had worked as it should. As the man was trying to navigate his way with the sense of touch, Horoma extended her awareness to its limits in an attempt to figure out their location. It quickly became apparent to her, and moments later to the sobbing human as well, that they were trapped.
While they had probably ended up somewhere in the material plane, the idiot had not been able to focus on the target destination well enough, resulting in them being placed somewhere deep underground, in a small enclosure with no apparent exit. Horoma could sense a relative weakness in one of the walls and a possible way out, but the man clearly lacked the strength to break free. The one opportunity she had received, to find purpose in battle and glory, was foiled. She cursed the situation in anger and spoke out to the crying man.
“Get your act together, you pathetic husk! There’s more at stake here than your pitiful life!”. The sudden unexpected voice in his head was the final nail in the coffin for the already close-to-death mortal, and Horoma could feel the frail beat of his heart immediately coming to a stop in surprise. The man swiftly collapsed, and the sword, released from his grasp fell to the cold stones of the damp cave floor.
Once more, the sentient weapon lay there, in an even worse state of forgottenness than she had been in the infernal boutique. Horoma quickly became lonely and began to miss Axe, Superbius and even the indifferent Saban, the few beings she had once called friends. Without the day to day activities of the Vibrant Anguish to observe, the blade quickly lost the track of the temporal, and an indefinite amount of time passed. The occasional critters were her only companions, far too simple lifeforms to understand her. Throughout the ages she completely lost hope and most of her sanity.
... Until one day, the rubble in the wall was finally pushed aside, and from the sudden light emerged two dark-clothed pointy-eared humanoids. “See, brother, I told you there were hidden treasures in this dump!“

Recent events

After being rediscovered from her longstanding seclusion within a cave somewhere around central Ansalon in 643E2, Horoma has had mixed experiences on the material plane. The first of the two elves that broke in to the cavern in search for treasure, the elder son, who ended up picking her up from the rubble, was not the ideal wielder by any merits. This of course wasn't too hard to predict, as the difference between a fierce devil warrior and a skinny young elf is, well, the difference between a devil and an elf; the devil walks out of a fight between the two laughing his horns off. And in most cases this isn't because the elf cast a laugh-spell on the fiend, but because he found the way the elf's guts spilled out particularly amusing.
He was, however, weak-willed enough to be at the very least a suitable vessel for the superior being within the sword. And so, as the elves walked back to town, probably to vendor the blade off to some street merchant for a quick buck, Horoma took control. She simply forced the elder brother to first stop, turn around in the crowd of people and just walk away. The confused younger brother quickly lost track of them. The elf left behind had with gleaming eyes been more enchanted by the finesse of the blade when they initially discovered her, but aside from that she had no initial preference between the two; the choice of the elder brother was merely coincidental as he happened to be the one carrying her at the time.
Given that this was the first time she'd done anything like this, there were some difficulties. It wasn't clean. The elf, Vaxidor his name, did end up periodically regaining control. Sometimes he would remember what had happened while the infernal sword was behind the wheel, sometimes he'd stir up not knowing where he was and how he'd got there. There was little communication between the two, or at least from Horoma's end of things, who mostly kept silent aside from occasionally insulting the mortal and his world.
Horoma knew very little of this place and to be quite honest, wasn't really interested in learning. She viewed the humans and the other mortal races of the plane as puny and undeserving of life itself. Thus, in the following weeks the 'elf wielding a dark blade' became quite the phenomenon, having culled several smaller villages, killing all innocent and not so innocent civilians in his path. Whilst the elf was in her control, she spent every moment spreading as much destruction in her wake as possible. While this was definitely better than spending eons trapped on the cold floor of a cave, it didn't satisfy the being within the sword. Everything was too easy; spilling blood and slaying inferior beings was nice and all, but there was a distinct lack of challenge. In her ignorance she thought that these farmhands and the occasional retiree town guard was the best the material plane could offer.
It wasn't until the duo wandered into The Red Desert, the barrenness of which reminded Horoma of Avernus, that she was truly intrigued and even satisfied with the adversaries they were facing in battle. This was due to the fact that demons had begun spawning from beneath the sands of the desert as the first move of a more expansive abyssal scheme that summer. Though they both share many similar fiendish origins, demons are the hated natural enemy of devils, all the way from the times of pact primeval. To Horoma, there was nothing more delightful than slaughtering demons. Unfortunately, numbed by the lack of resistance prior, she vastly underestimated her new foes.
Usually the fighting was well over by the time the elf, Vaxidor, regained control only to find himself swimming in a sea of blood. This time, in addition to a sea of blood, some of which was his own, there was also a group of a dozen various different demon-kin surrounding him, ready to chop off and feed on his appendages. Horoma, infuriated that she'd lost control, tried with all her power to bend the elf to her will. Instead of willingly letting her take over, which would've probably been the smarter choice, he tried to fight for his own life himself. Perhaps the elf thought of this as an opportunity to grow mentally; if he'd survive this own his own merit perhaps he would no longer be subject to the sword's whims, and that if he'd die, at least he wouldn't be the sword's slave anymore.
Regardless if this was something he'd thought so deeply about, or if it was just simple panic, it failed. Not that he would've been able to fend the demons off anyway, but in combination with the situation and the fact that Horoma was forcefully trying to take control, the elf simply collapsed onto the sand and lost consciousness. The being within the blade could do nothing to animate him; she could only affect the mind, once the body was out of the equation, all she could do was observe. The two were dragged down into the dim tunnels from where the demons had come from. While they ended up separated, Horoma could still feel that the elf remained alive for at least the next few days while their bond and link slowly faded.
She was once again all alone on the floor of an empty and dark room, until a horned demon that seemed to command authority among the invaders arrived. This demon lord tied her into a chain from the ceiling with a wicked grin on his beastly face, and thrust the chain forward with all his might. Horoma clattered against the stone wall of the room and then from the impact bounced back to the other wall in a pendulum motion. This was extremely unpleasant, and she quickly realized that the chain wasn't slowing down at all; though the demons had left, and there was no-one there to swing forward the chain, nor a flow of air to push it, she was in perpetual motion, endlessly colliding with the exact same positions on the walls at the exact same interval each time.
Trying to resist going insane from the torture Horoma pondered how she'd allowed herself, a devilish being, to be so easily defeated by those pathetic demons. At first, she thought that the fault had of course been in the elf. While that wasn't entirely wrong, she eventually realized that there was more to it than that. Vaxidor, while in her control, had been powered only by a frail connection of possession. Even if he hadn't woken up and doomed himself at that unfortunate time it was likely she would've still lost the fight. In fact, she had very much been losing up until that point, and had simply refused to accept defeat.
In this long and grueling time of punishment she came to a regrettable conclusion; she had to admit, that to truly succeed against more powerful beings, she and her wielder would have to work in perfect unison, both parties being willing participants and actors in the battle. Only then, would they triumph. Possessing someone and then using them as a physical extension to her will simply wouldn't cut it.
This revelation crushed her, for she hadn't seen any suitable devils ever since leaving Dis. Only humans and elves and dwarves and other representatives of mortal races she would not be able to treat as equals. Even those that called themselves tieflings had disgusted her. There was also something else bothering her. These demons that had captured her and placed her in this containment and torture of clanging against the walls eternally, preventing her from properly entering her beloved dreamlike state, had recognized her. As if they'd been old enemies, happy to exact revenge, though she didn't recall ever meeting these vile creatures or their bestial master before.

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That's where we shall pause the story of Horoma for now, until the conclusion of my campaign. There are events yet to come, and mysteries of her past yet unveiled.

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The above story includes references to a few locations and characters of the Forgotten Realms universe, as is the case in some of my other work related to environments outside of the prime material plane as well, but aside from that the story itself is my fully original work.

Item type

Weapon, Melee