Whispersong

[*Spiegel1]

I might free you one day Whispersong, tell me. Are you a Darthiir? I would take a guess and say Xas though. I am curious about what secrets you hold inside you Darthiir, are you going to tell me? As Azal waits for a response her eyes slowly drift to the bed. "Perhaps it can wait until tomorrow Whispersong."

[*Ceremorph]

The impression of a soft gasp of surprise is felt from the blade, then silence for a few moments. Until the voice returns, and with a query.

"Xas"? "Darthiir"? You are... of the lost ones?

[*Spiegel1]

I suppose dos could call me that if dos wish Whispersong, i am curious about your reaction to such a revelation though. The fact that this blade fits my hand perfectly suggests who the makers of this blade were.

[*Ceremorph]

The voice is silent for a time, but when it returns it is more certain, bolder in its manner of mental comunication.

"I think I can see your guess within your thoughts... but you are mistaken. Centuries of travel, of moving from plane to plane, have taught me some things. You are of those called the Illithyri, or drow? Your race became extinct upon my world long ago, a supposedly great victory of ancient legend." A gentle sigh sounds. "Perhaps were that not so, I would not have suffered this indignity. My death, my sacrifice, was brought about... by my own people."

[*Spiegel1]

"Oh now that is interesting Darthiir, i would like to hear more about how such a thing came to be." The Drowess settles herself down in a cushioned chair while holding the blade in one hand. "I am willing to listen to your story of times past as well as how the Drow were defeated. It might prove to have some worth in the story." Azal glances over the sword with curiosity once again. "To think that the most reviled of our race did an act such as this, i know for a fact that the stories taught by the typical Drow, your Lost Ones, are nothing but lies to further Lolth's agenda in spreading chaos and destruction." The small Drowess mutters these words in the Elven Tongue seeming to have an excellent grasp on the language, almost like she has spent time around the Surface Elves.

[*Ceremorph]

The drowess felt a faint pressure in her head, only for a moment's time, before the sword responded again. "You do not serve the ancient evil... that is good. Perhaps I will rest well in your hand, Bearer Azal. Perhaps I will tell you more, after some consideration."

With that, the blade's voice went quiet, not responding to any of her other questions. It seemed that the consideration would be ongoing.

[*Spiegel1]

After several repeated queries from Azal she gives the sword a frustrated look before sliding the short sword into her sheath as she steps out the door of her room. "Very well then Whispersong, i will give you plenty of things to consider." "Shall we visit the general population of the Cage?"

[*Ceremorph]

Even as the blade remained silent, Azal could feel a sense of curiousity coming from the blade at her side, the odd feeling of something else looking out from behind her own eyes, as she walked the bustling streets of sigil. Almost beyond her volition, she found her hand again and again straying to rest upon the pommel, a pleasant tingle against her palm as she did so. Occasionally, she found her eyes drifting to examine something, whether a garishly-dressed planewaker, an odd architectural detail, or any number of the planar beings calling Sigil home. And for some reason, as she passed before the expensive glass windows of an upper-class inn in the Lady's ward, she found herself stopping and staring at her reflection in the panes. A change of positions, a tilt of the head, a toss of the hair, and a pleased smile before she moved on, the idea that the weapon looked so good resting on her hip passing through her mind, and not a moment's thought given to the fact that this was not a thing that Azal would normally do.

[*Spiegel1]

A toss of the hair, a giggle, a discussion on fashion and the possibility of a Drowess with dyed red hair, her time spent with Zilvai ended with a hug and a smile. This does not fit Azal but then nobody really knows her all that well, perhaps she just finally opened up to somebody? Azal herself seems to be unaware of this. The Drowess occasionally showed these signs but who's to tell that it's not the real her? Inbetween the signs she lapsed back to her cordial, polite self. After Azal left Zilvai in the Inn she went to her room while once again stroking the pommel of the short sword. She shuts the door before settling in her cushioned chair making herself comfortable before muttering in Elven to the sword. " There is more to you than you are revealing, i have given you a glimpse of Sigil today, will you impart some of your own knowledge?" "I can sense more about this sword from my knowledge of the Arcane." "What secrets do you hold in you?" How did you come to be in Seethe's possession?" "I am also curious about your own world."

[*Ceremorph]

"My own... knowledge?" The blade seemed somewhat confused by that, even as the almost happy emotion radiating from it after a day spent seeing the world through Azal's eyes continues unabated. "I was a conjurer in life, perhaps better than many, but by no means one of the great powers of my age. If I had lived longer before finding myself like this? Perhaps then."

The sword seemed to need a moment to compose its thoughts, perhaps even showing a hint of confusion through the telepathic bond. "I cannot know all of what you call the blade's powers, Azal. I am not the blade, but rather within it, in symbiosis with it. It is not I that commands its magic, but she who holds the hilt. I have seen my wielders do things with it, with me, before... but I never know if that is the blade itself, or if they are simply using it as a focus. I never thought I would come to envy other objects, at knowing themselves...."

The other questions, as the night deepened and eventually became morning, led to stories. Half a century spent alone inside a chest, after being wielded by a series of cruel, cold elves who in their actions seem nothing like the surface elves Azal knows. Two who touched her, but did not try to converse or bear her. And finally, awakening from near-endless reverie in Azal's hands.

Her world, on the other hand, grows dimmer and dimmer as the years pass. Ancient forests, rolling grasslands, cities of sculpted glass and tombs of the ancients. A world without conflict, it would seem, although some need conflict to feel fulfilled. A race split off from the rest of elvenkind, disdaining the emotion within themselves and turning their hearts to conquest, in the name of their own ambition and the greatest elven empire to ever exist. Portals ripped through space, armies conscripted, endless battles.

And somehow, even if she cannot remember the details, a perceived failure on her part, the disapproving scowls of the tall, cold ones. And the loss of her life, her freedom, within this blade. So little left of that life, the only concrete memory the blade sliding across her throat, the warm gush of blood and fall of darkness before awakening within this prison.