Whispersong

[*Spiegel1]

The Drowess known as Azal Tsetos sits in her room running a slender hand along the blade she received while listening to the subtle Elven words whispering from the blade. With a glance at her work table she sits up moving towards it running her fingers along the edge of the blade while muttering responses in Elven before switching to her native tongue of Drow on occasion as she hears some of the brief flashes of memory from the Elf sealed inside this sword. She eventually hears the story of how the Wizard came to be inside the blade as the whispered words grow softer with a tone of horror and pain evident in the short sword's tone. With Azal mulling over how the person she purchased this from managed to acquire such a wonderful sword she runs her eyes over the blade looking for any clues on the make of the sword.

[*Ceremorph]

The sword does not seem to have a maker's mark upon it, and although of obvious quality, there is little differentiating it from any other masterwork-level weapon, although the triple runnels down the length of the blade are a rather unique feature that would be quite unfamiliar.

[*Spiegel1]

Azal runs an eye along the triple runnels on the blade out of curiosity wondering if there is anything of note from such an unusual feature. She reaches out with what Arcane Magic she does have as her eyes glow a bright green looking for any trace of magic along the runnels.

[*Ceremorph]

The weaon contains far too much inherent magic to pick out one thing or another about an individual feature. But a faint voice sounds in the back of Azar's head as she tries to focus, sounding youthful and sweet.

"Ask me."

[*Spiegel1]

As Azal holds the sword in one hand she mutters three words in Elven: Ask you what? While waiting for a response she flips through her meager spellbook for anything that could possibly help her in this situation.

[*Ceremorph]

A soft sigh is heard, a whispering zephyr flickering about Azal's mind. A moment's silence follows, but the quiet voice speaking elven is soon heard again, its barely audible quality not preventing a clear understanding of it.

"The runnels caught the blood. Siphoned it into the hollow hilt. Blood, mind, soul, trapped within these metal walls. So long now, so long."

[*Spiegel1]

Azal lays a hand on the hilt with curiosity watching to see if anything happens while she mulls over the fact that everything is trapped in the hollowed out piece of metal. She then turns the edge of the blade towards herself looking to see how tightly sealed the hilt is.

[*Ceremorph]

The hilt seems to be quite solid, quillons of bright silver sunken deep into a flawless ivory cylinder, lightly ridged to fit the grip. Oddly enough, those ridges seem to fit the fingers of the petite drow holding it perfectly.

Yet it seemed that something had changed by her examination, her fingers crawling across the metal of the blade. The voice within, previously so rambling and incoherent as it spoke of events and a cruel death long past, seems to have gained substance, a will of its own, as if awakening from a half-sleep. The words are forceful and clear within the drow mage's mind.

"This one was once Whispersong, my bearer. You are not he who held me last... who are you, that bears me now?"

[*Spiegel1]

I am Azal Tsetos, Whispersong. I am your new bearer. What can you tell me about your previous bearer? The Drowess notes that her fingers easily fit the grip, a suspicion forming in her mind about who made this beautiful weapon. She listens intently to the whispers of Elven heard only by her while she contemplates over what secrets might be known by this mage.

[*Ceremorph]

"He used me cruelly," the voice replies. "Your hands are soft, Bearer Azal. I hope that you will not seek such ends."

The voice cuts off with a sudden choked sob, then continues, albeit with a slight waver in its intensity. "Too much blood has been spilled. Too many long years..."

"Let me die now."