The Crows Talons
“I sense your life ebbing away from you, desperation and pain clouding your mind. Yet you fight, clawing, scratching—strong enough to battle death itself, tooth and nail. I see you for what you are—a warrior true. I offer you a deal: choose to become her champion, and your death shall be spared this day. But know this—only by battle shall you fall when your time comes.” — The Crow Spirit, to a chosen champion at the brink of death
“The powers of the gauntlets are many—or perhaps it is more correct to say, the powers of the Irish goddess who has claimed them as the weapon of her Battle Crow are boundless. Do not underestimate this Knight of Crows, this pagan mercenary from Ériu. His weapon is every bit as dangerous as my half-brother’s sword, for where Arthur’s blade brings honor and light, the Talons bring shadow and fate. To face him is to court death itself.” — Morgan le Fay, on the Crows Talons and one of their wielder's
“That thing is no man—perhaps he was once, but now he’s a tool of senseless revenge. Boudica is dead, her warriors defeated, yet he hunts us still. He is consumed by grudges that fester like open wounds, and he will not rest until Roman blood has spilled in equal measure to what we have taken. By Jupiter, how can we be expected to face such a creature alone?” — A Roman Legionary stationed in Britannia
“I have seen a witch of the Scots—her fingers like a raven’s talons, and the crows came at her call. She hewed warrior men and shield-maidens alike, her strength born of magic, her will driven by revenge! She fights not like the Christian women but like a Valkyrie, fierce and unrelenting! She is beautiful and terrible, a storm of black feathers and blood. By Odin, what I would do to make her mine…” — Braggi the Blessed, Priest of Odin and master of rune magic, recounting a battle with the Crow-Witch of the Scots
“When life gives you lemons, you make lemonade. When life gives you a set of magical gauntlets and superpowers, you, uh… fight crime? I guess?” — The Cunning Corax, aka James McEnroe, musing on his role as Morrígan’s champion
The Crows Talons are a relic—an artifact, if you prefer—an item of ancient power and magic said to imbue whoever is chosen by them with the might of the Morrígan's champion. Some call them the great equalizer, a bane to all foes, a weapon that cannot be denied and whose wounds heal at a painfully slow rate. Ghosts, elementals, vampires, werewolves, demons, faeries or even angels—there is no creature that can resist their bite. Even the so-called invulnerable superheroes of this world bleed from them, and I have seen regenerators—those people and monsters who claim to recover from any wound—bleed out and die as quickly as any mortal before the Crow's Talons.
There is no foe they cannot fell, so long as their wielder is skilled enough in battle.
But mark my words—they do not belong in this world, least of all in the hands of the kinds of people they are drawn to. Vengeful, dark, traumatized souls. It is as if the Crows Talons seek out the unhinged and troubled intentionally.
They are a prime example of why I despise old pagan magic—wild, dangerous, and untamed.” — Brother Alexander of the Order of Saint George, warrior priest and monster hunter
“The powers of the gauntlets are many—or perhaps it is more correct to say, the powers of the Irish goddess who has claimed them as the weapon of her Battle Crow are boundless. Do not underestimate this Knight of Crows, this pagan mercenary from Ériu. His weapon is every bit as dangerous as my half-brother’s sword, for where Arthur’s blade brings honor and light, the Talons bring shadow and fate. To face him is to court death itself.” — Morgan le Fay, on the Crows Talons and one of their wielder's
“That thing is no man—perhaps he was once, but now he’s a tool of senseless revenge. Boudica is dead, her warriors defeated, yet he hunts us still. He is consumed by grudges that fester like open wounds, and he will not rest until Roman blood has spilled in equal measure to what we have taken. By Jupiter, how can we be expected to face such a creature alone?” — A Roman Legionary stationed in Britannia
“I have seen a witch of the Scots—her fingers like a raven’s talons, and the crows came at her call. She hewed warrior men and shield-maidens alike, her strength born of magic, her will driven by revenge! She fights not like the Christian women but like a Valkyrie, fierce and unrelenting! She is beautiful and terrible, a storm of black feathers and blood. By Odin, what I would do to make her mine…” — Braggi the Blessed, Priest of Odin and master of rune magic, recounting a battle with the Crow-Witch of the Scots
“When life gives you lemons, you make lemonade. When life gives you a set of magical gauntlets and superpowers, you, uh… fight crime? I guess?” — The Cunning Corax, aka James McEnroe, musing on his role as Morrígan’s champion
The Crows Talons are a relic—an artifact, if you prefer—an item of ancient power and magic said to imbue whoever is chosen by them with the might of the Morrígan's champion. Some call them the great equalizer, a bane to all foes, a weapon that cannot be denied and whose wounds heal at a painfully slow rate. Ghosts, elementals, vampires, werewolves, demons, faeries or even angels—there is no creature that can resist their bite. Even the so-called invulnerable superheroes of this world bleed from them, and I have seen regenerators—those people and monsters who claim to recover from any wound—bleed out and die as quickly as any mortal before the Crow's Talons.
There is no foe they cannot fell, so long as their wielder is skilled enough in battle.
But mark my words—they do not belong in this world, least of all in the hands of the kinds of people they are drawn to. Vengeful, dark, traumatized souls. It is as if the Crows Talons seek out the unhinged and troubled intentionally.
They are a prime example of why I despise old pagan magic—wild, dangerous, and untamed.” — Brother Alexander of the Order of Saint George, warrior priest and monster hunter
Mechanics & Inner Workings
At first glance, the Crows Talons appear to be little more than crude, clawed gauntlets, their design impractical and even burdensome by conventional standards. Forged of heavy meteoric iron, their claws—long, hooked, and vicious—seem ill-suited for finesse in combat. Traditional weapons become awkward to wield when wearing the Talons, and their reach is nearly nonexistent, forcing their user into close quarters where survival depends on speed, strength, and precision.
To the untrained eye, their value ends there. Yet, the Talons are no ordinary weapons—they are an artifact of ancient Pictish magic, bound to the power of a crow spirit, and later reforged by the divine smith Goibniu of the Tuatha Dé Danann. It is this blend of magic and spirit that elevates the Talons beyond their physical limitations, transforming them into an unrivaled instrument of fate, war, and death.
“When the Phantom Queen brought me the Talons, they were already impressive—especially for mortal hands. What I did was no miracle, no great act of creation, merely what any good smith does. I refined them, made them beautiful with moonsilver and knotwork, added the dragon hide to make them more comfortable, and honed their edge to perfection. All I did was improve what was already there. A mortal shaped them into a weapon—what I gave them beauty to match their power.” — Goibniu, the Smith of the Tuatha Dé Danann
To the untrained eye, their value ends there. Yet, the Talons are no ordinary weapons—they are an artifact of ancient Pictish magic, bound to the power of a crow spirit, and later reforged by the divine smith Goibniu of the Tuatha Dé Danann. It is this blend of magic and spirit that elevates the Talons beyond their physical limitations, transforming them into an unrivaled instrument of fate, war, and death.
“When the Phantom Queen brought me the Talons, they were already impressive—especially for mortal hands. What I did was no miracle, no great act of creation, merely what any good smith does. I refined them, made them beautiful with moonsilver and knotwork, added the dragon hide to make them more comfortable, and honed their edge to perfection. All I did was improve what was already there. A mortal shaped them into a weapon—what I gave them beauty to match their power.” — Goibniu, the Smith of the Tuatha Dé Danann
Manufacturing process
The method by which the Crows Talons were created is shrouded in mystery. The ancient magic used by Druistan the Crow-Seer, the Pictish wizard who first forged the gauntlets, has long been lost to time. Even the Tuatha Dé Danann and other divine beings can only marvel at the mortal craftsmanship, unable to replicate the forgotten rituals and primal magic that shaped the Talons.
Legends say that Druistan wielded magic older than the gods themselves, drawing on the power of the Otherworld to shape star-metal and bind the spirit of a crow into the gauntlets.
“The Talons are not merely forged—they are woven from star-metal and spirit, shaped by words no man remembers and fire no god has ever seen again.”
Legends say that Druistan wielded magic older than the gods themselves, drawing on the power of the Otherworld to shape star-metal and bind the spirit of a crow into the gauntlets.
“The Talons are not merely forged—they are woven from star-metal and spirit, shaped by words no man remembers and fire no god has ever seen again.”
History
"We have been wielded by countless: heroes and villains, warriors and sorcerers, royalty and rogues alike. We fought the Fir Bolg, battled alongside Boudica against Roman invaders, were worn by King Bran, served an Irish mercenary in Arthur’s court, and witnessed the Wild West, the roaring twenties, and so much more. Always do we find a champion, and in every era, our claws touch the threads of fate.” -The Crow Spirit
The Creation of the Crows Talons
In a time before history, before kingdoms rose and fell, when the lands of the Picts were wild and untamed, a star fell from the sky. It came not with a whisper but with a roar, a blazing light that split the heavens and crashed into the earth, shaking the hills and turning the night into day. For days, the smoke rose from the crater, and when the fires cooled, the people came to see what the gods had sent.
At the heart of the smoldering earth lay a shard of iron darker than the night itself, strange and cold despite the fire that had borne it to the mortal world. Those who touched it claimed it hummed with something alive—a sound they could not quite hear, like the rustle of unseen wings. They named it a gift from the heavens, a sacred offering, but none dared claim it. It was said that the gods themselves would choose who wielded it.
In those days, there lived a wizard and blacksmith known as Druistan the Crow-Seer. Old and wise, Druistan was said to walk the line between life and death, a man whose dreams were haunted by the caws of crows and the whispers of the dead. The Seer came to the crater, cloaked in smoke and shadow, and when he laid his hands upon the iron he had a vision of a weapon crafted from this Star Metal.
For three days and three nights, Druistan worked in his hidden forge beneath the stones of a sacred cairn. The air trembled with the heat of his fire, and the forge glowed with a light that seemed not of this world. He hammered the star-metal with strength no mortal man should possess, chanting ancient spells in a tongue older than time. He worked until his skin was blackened with soot and his voice raw from the words of power.
At the final hour of the third night, Druistan summoned forth a great black crow spirit—a creature that he had known his entire life, silent and watchful—and laid it upon the anvil. With trembling hands, he placed the talons of the crow into the molten metal, and with one final spell, he empowered the gauntlets the gauntlets. The forge roared, the crow screamed, and then there was silence.
When the smoke cleared, Druistan held the Crows Talons—a pair of gauntlets as dark as the iron from which they were born, their claws sharp as obsidian, their form terrible and perfect. The bracers were etched with the runes of the Picts—and the metal shimmered faintly with the cold light of starlight. The crows outside cawed in unison, their cries echoing across the hills as though announcing the Talons to the world.
The First Champion
It is said the Talons were first wielded by a chieftain of the Picts, a warrior whose name was forgotten but whose deeds became legend. On the eve of battle, as the chieftain lay dying—his blood soaking the earth, his body broken—Druistan appeared at his side.
The Seer knelt beside the chieftain, holding the Talons in his hands. “Take them,” Druistan said, his voice little more than a whisper. “Take them, and rise. But know this: they come with a price.”
The chieftain looked into Druistan’s eyes, then at the gauntlets, and knew the truth—this was not a gift but a bargain, a pact with the unseen. With trembling fingers, he slid the gauntlets over his hands.
A great shadow fell across the battlefield, and the crows descended in a black cloud. The chieftain rose, his wounds forgotten, his form transformed. His skin turned pale as bone, his hair and eyes dark as pitch, and his body became something beyond mortal limits—an ideal warrior, shaped by the hand of fate itself. The crows cawed as one, and the chieftain screamed into the night, his voice a roar of rage and life.
The Talons carried him through battle after battle. The chieftain became a force of nature, cutting down his enemies as though death itself walked among them. But power has a cost, and those who saw him fight whispered that he was no longer a man but a creature of war, bound to something far older and darker. And in time, the Talons claimed him. As Druistan had foretold, the chieftain’s life was no longer his own. The Talons could only be wielded by one chosen by fate, and when the chieftain fell at last—his body broken not by man, but by the weight of his own bargain—the Talons vanished. The crows took to the skies once more, and their cries carried the tale of the Black Talon across the hills.
The Morrígan’s Claim
After the Pictish Chieftens Fall the Crows Talons would end up in the hands of the Nemedian's one of the early people of Ireland only to be lost in their war against the Formorians and later resurface when the Tuatha Dé Danann arrived and waged their war against the Fir Bolg. It was then that Morrígan, the Phantom Queen found the Crows Talons, they say she descended from the heavens. Appearing as a great black crow, she took the gauntlets into the Otherworld, where they were reforged by Goibniu, the divine smith of the Tuatha Dé Danann.
Under his hammer, the Talons became something greater—etched with silvery knotwork that gleamed like the light of a waning moon, their claws honed to a perfection no mortal smith could achieve. The black leather of the gauntlets came from the hide of a sea dragon, slain in the depths of the Otherworld, its scales impervious to blade or fire.
When the reforging was complete, Morrígan and her sisters spoke to the Talons as one voice echoing across realms.
“You shall be our claws in the mortal world, and no foe shall withstand you. To the worthy, you shall be power. To the unworthy, you shall be ruin. Go now, and choose your champions.”
And so the Crows Talons returned to the mortal world, carrying with them the will of the Phantom Queen.
The Early History
From that day forward, the Talons would choose their wielders, appearing only to those on the brink of death, those whose fates teetered between life and the grave. Some wielders were heroes, others were villains; some brought salvation, others destruction. The Talons carved a path through history, their power undeniable, their purpose inescapable.
The Picts, Nemedians, Celts, Scots, Bretons and Gauls and the people and monsters who faced them all told stories of the Talons in hushed tones, and as the centuries passed, the legends spread—of a weapon that could cut through gods and monsters, a weapon that chose its bearer and bound them to the will of the War, Fate and Death.
The Creation of the Crows Talons
In a time before history, before kingdoms rose and fell, when the lands of the Picts were wild and untamed, a star fell from the sky. It came not with a whisper but with a roar, a blazing light that split the heavens and crashed into the earth, shaking the hills and turning the night into day. For days, the smoke rose from the crater, and when the fires cooled, the people came to see what the gods had sent.
At the heart of the smoldering earth lay a shard of iron darker than the night itself, strange and cold despite the fire that had borne it to the mortal world. Those who touched it claimed it hummed with something alive—a sound they could not quite hear, like the rustle of unseen wings. They named it a gift from the heavens, a sacred offering, but none dared claim it. It was said that the gods themselves would choose who wielded it.
In those days, there lived a wizard and blacksmith known as Druistan the Crow-Seer. Old and wise, Druistan was said to walk the line between life and death, a man whose dreams were haunted by the caws of crows and the whispers of the dead. The Seer came to the crater, cloaked in smoke and shadow, and when he laid his hands upon the iron he had a vision of a weapon crafted from this Star Metal.
For three days and three nights, Druistan worked in his hidden forge beneath the stones of a sacred cairn. The air trembled with the heat of his fire, and the forge glowed with a light that seemed not of this world. He hammered the star-metal with strength no mortal man should possess, chanting ancient spells in a tongue older than time. He worked until his skin was blackened with soot and his voice raw from the words of power.
At the final hour of the third night, Druistan summoned forth a great black crow spirit—a creature that he had known his entire life, silent and watchful—and laid it upon the anvil. With trembling hands, he placed the talons of the crow into the molten metal, and with one final spell, he empowered the gauntlets the gauntlets. The forge roared, the crow screamed, and then there was silence.
When the smoke cleared, Druistan held the Crows Talons—a pair of gauntlets as dark as the iron from which they were born, their claws sharp as obsidian, their form terrible and perfect. The bracers were etched with the runes of the Picts—and the metal shimmered faintly with the cold light of starlight. The crows outside cawed in unison, their cries echoing across the hills as though announcing the Talons to the world.
The First Champion
It is said the Talons were first wielded by a chieftain of the Picts, a warrior whose name was forgotten but whose deeds became legend. On the eve of battle, as the chieftain lay dying—his blood soaking the earth, his body broken—Druistan appeared at his side.
The Seer knelt beside the chieftain, holding the Talons in his hands. “Take them,” Druistan said, his voice little more than a whisper. “Take them, and rise. But know this: they come with a price.”
The chieftain looked into Druistan’s eyes, then at the gauntlets, and knew the truth—this was not a gift but a bargain, a pact with the unseen. With trembling fingers, he slid the gauntlets over his hands.
A great shadow fell across the battlefield, and the crows descended in a black cloud. The chieftain rose, his wounds forgotten, his form transformed. His skin turned pale as bone, his hair and eyes dark as pitch, and his body became something beyond mortal limits—an ideal warrior, shaped by the hand of fate itself. The crows cawed as one, and the chieftain screamed into the night, his voice a roar of rage and life.
The Talons carried him through battle after battle. The chieftain became a force of nature, cutting down his enemies as though death itself walked among them. But power has a cost, and those who saw him fight whispered that he was no longer a man but a creature of war, bound to something far older and darker. And in time, the Talons claimed him. As Druistan had foretold, the chieftain’s life was no longer his own. The Talons could only be wielded by one chosen by fate, and when the chieftain fell at last—his body broken not by man, but by the weight of his own bargain—the Talons vanished. The crows took to the skies once more, and their cries carried the tale of the Black Talon across the hills.
The Morrígan’s Claim
After the Pictish Chieftens Fall the Crows Talons would end up in the hands of the Nemedian's one of the early people of Ireland only to be lost in their war against the Formorians and later resurface when the Tuatha Dé Danann arrived and waged their war against the Fir Bolg. It was then that Morrígan, the Phantom Queen found the Crows Talons, they say she descended from the heavens. Appearing as a great black crow, she took the gauntlets into the Otherworld, where they were reforged by Goibniu, the divine smith of the Tuatha Dé Danann.
Under his hammer, the Talons became something greater—etched with silvery knotwork that gleamed like the light of a waning moon, their claws honed to a perfection no mortal smith could achieve. The black leather of the gauntlets came from the hide of a sea dragon, slain in the depths of the Otherworld, its scales impervious to blade or fire.
When the reforging was complete, Morrígan and her sisters spoke to the Talons as one voice echoing across realms.
“You shall be our claws in the mortal world, and no foe shall withstand you. To the worthy, you shall be power. To the unworthy, you shall be ruin. Go now, and choose your champions.”
And so the Crows Talons returned to the mortal world, carrying with them the will of the Phantom Queen.
The Early History
From that day forward, the Talons would choose their wielders, appearing only to those on the brink of death, those whose fates teetered between life and the grave. Some wielders were heroes, others were villains; some brought salvation, others destruction. The Talons carved a path through history, their power undeniable, their purpose inescapable.
The Picts, Nemedians, Celts, Scots, Bretons and Gauls and the people and monsters who faced them all told stories of the Talons in hushed tones, and as the centuries passed, the legends spread—of a weapon that could cut through gods and monsters, a weapon that chose its bearer and bound them to the will of the War, Fate and Death.
Significance
The Crows Talons are far more than weapons; they are a symbol of divine judgment, the mark of the Morrígan’s mortal champion, and a bridge between life, death, and fate. Forged from celestial iron and imbued with the will of the Phantom Queen and her sisters, the Talons do not simply choose their wielders—they claim them, binding their souls to a greater purpose.
To wield the Talons is to become The Champion of Morrígan, a harbinger of justice, vengeance, and war. This title is not a gift but a burden, for no mortal who dons the Talons has ever lived a life without consequence. Whether hero or villain, king or rogue, each champion’s life becomes a thread in the tapestry of fate—woven into history, legend, and myth.
"The Crows Talons are both a weapon and a mark, a gift and a curse. To wield them is to stand in the shadow of the Morrígan, to serve her will as her mortal champion. Throughout history, none who have borne the Talons have lived lives without consequence—heroes and villains alike have shaped the course of history with their deeds, etched into legend by the power of the Phantom Queen’s claws. To accept the Talons is to embrace fate itself, for their champions are never forgotten by fate."
To wield the Talons is to become The Champion of Morrígan, a harbinger of justice, vengeance, and war. This title is not a gift but a burden, for no mortal who dons the Talons has ever lived a life without consequence. Whether hero or villain, king or rogue, each champion’s life becomes a thread in the tapestry of fate—woven into history, legend, and myth.
"The Crows Talons are both a weapon and a mark, a gift and a curse. To wield them is to stand in the shadow of the Morrígan, to serve her will as her mortal champion. Throughout history, none who have borne the Talons have lived lives without consequence—heroes and villains alike have shaped the course of history with their deeds, etched into legend by the power of the Phantom Queen’s claws. To accept the Talons is to embrace fate itself, for their champions are never forgotten by fate."
Item type
Weapon, Melee
Creation Date
Unknown suspected to be somewhere between 4000 and 3000 BCE
Current Holder
Rarity
"The Crows Talons are unique in all realms, mortal and divine. Forged from a fallen star, blessed by gods, and bound to the spirit of war, they exist as both a weapon and a divine symbol. No others like them have ever been created, nor can they be forged again. They are the singular embodiment of the Morrígan’s judgment—death and fate made manifest." -The Crow Spirit
Weight
10 lbs or 4.5 kg
Dimensions
Length: 12 inches or 30 cm, Width: 4.5-5 inches or 11.5-12.7 cm to 8 inches or 20 cm (narrowest point to thickest), Thickness: 1-1.5 inches or 2.5-3.8 cm (at densest points)
Base Price
Priceless
Raw materials & Components
The Crows Talons are crafted from a blend of mortal ingenuity and divine refinement, combining elements of heaven, earth, and sea to form a weapon of unparalleled power and mystique.
Black Meteoric Iron: The claws and plates are forged from a star-forged metal, enchanted to be eternally sharp and unbreakable.
Moonsilver: The knotwork is etched from Otherworldly silver like substance stronger then steel. The same SIlver that Nuada's silver hand was forged from.
Sea Dragon Hide: The gauntlets’ leather components are made from the black hide of an Otherworld sea dragon, offering resilience, flexibility, and magical resistance.
Black Meteoric Iron: The claws and plates are forged from a star-forged metal, enchanted to be eternally sharp and unbreakable.
Moonsilver: The knotwork is etched from Otherworldly silver like substance stronger then steel. The same SIlver that Nuada's silver hand was forged from.
Sea Dragon Hide: The gauntlets’ leather components are made from the black hide of an Otherworld sea dragon, offering resilience, flexibility, and magical resistance.
Tools
The method by which the Pictish wizard Druistan the Crow-Seer smelted and shaped the Black Meteoric Iron remains one of the greatest mysteries of the Crows Talons. It is widely believed that their creation could only have been achieved through ancient magic, rituals that drew on the power of the Otherworld. Legends speak of a ghostly flame, rune-carved tools, and incantations that softened the unyielding star-metal, allowing it to take form under Druistan’s will.
Even Goibniu, the divine smith, marveled at the Talons' creation, calling it a mortal miracle that could not be replicated
“A forge of fire at that time could not have shaped the iron of stars—only magic could.”
Even Goibniu, the divine smith, marveled at the Talons' creation, calling it a mortal miracle that could not be replicated
“A forge of fire at that time could not have shaped the iron of stars—only magic could.”
Ever Sharp and immaculate: The claws never dull, no matter the material or force they strike. They can not be stained with blood, offal and other unwanted susbstances simply sliding off them.
Indestructible: The Talons cannot be broken, corroded, or damaged by physical, elemental, or magical means. Interact with Intangible Beings: The Talons can strike ghosts, spirits, and other incorporeal entities as if they were solid.
Bypass All Known Resistances: They can penetrate all forms of defense, including supernatural resistances, magical barriers, and even the invulnerability of so-called unkillable foes.
Negate Rapid Regeneration: Wounds inflicted by the Talons resist both natural and supernatural healing, lingering and festering until properly treated—if they can be at all.
Champion Transformation: When donned, the Talons transform the wielder into the Champion of the Morrígan, enhancing their physical abilities to peak human levels and granting them supernatural awareness.
Spirit Bond: The Talons house the Crow Spirit, an ancient sentient guide that offers battle insight, protection from psychic intrusion, and communion with death.
Pocket Dimension Storage: The Talons and related equipment can be shunted into and summoned from a personal pocket dimension with a word or thought.
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