Let’s get the heart of this update out of the way: I’ve started working on the legends of Koeleth again, alongside my work on the Chronicles of Koeleth. Now that that’s out of the way, a gift.

A Blacksmith’s Adventures with Weapons of Legend: The Whistling Lady

The strange swordsman twirled and spun his sword with skill, finesse and speed. Tom immediately recognized that it was no ordinary blade. Along the flat of the blade were a number of peculiar holes. Not the rusty tears of use and age, nor the cruel punctures of arcane power, but intentionally crafted canals. With each swing of the blade, air rushed through the holes, producing a strange, almost musical whistling noise. The way the swordsman swung it was meaningful, then.

“She calls; is blood the only answer?” the man said cryptically.

Tom, realizing what he was dealing with, put down his halberd and drew his Royal Oathkeeper, the only sword he had with him. He held the heavy stone blade in his left hand and mirrored his foes actions, though t a considerably slower pace.

“Only blood shall answer, lest the Whistling Lady’s song die,” Tom replied.

“You know of this blade, then?”

“You’d be hard-pressed to find a blade I didn’t know of.”

In fact, Tom knew a great deal about the Whistling Lady. Despite the distance between their lands, there were more than a few legends shared by both the Elvair and the Koelings. Not unlike the Oathbound of Urdvayn, who wielded the Oathkeepers, the Whistling Watchers of Elvairnian carried the Wind Whistles. The Whistling Watchers died in a great and terrible battle, leaving very few remnants. One of the survivors, a female warrior, vowed to avenge her fallen brethren. She took up her sword and waged a one woman war against her foes, earning the name the Last Watcher. She would pass as a friend and lead them deep into the woods. When they were sufficiently lost, she would hunt them down, twirling her blade in a very particular fashion to signal their demise. Eventually, she perished in battle, but her blade, forever remembered as the Whistling Lady, lived on. Few blades were worthy of facing it in battle. The Royal Oathkeeper was one of them.

“You have honored the blade with your words. Now, honor it with battle,” the stranger said.

“Wait. If we are to do this right, let me recite the Oath of the Stone.”

“Very well.”

“The Stone is life, the strong father. He provides for those who give their blood for him. Death is peace, the gentle mother. She shall take in those whom the Stone can no longer carry. Let this blade forged from the Stone’s heart, meant for the Stone Lord, guide me through all trials, until Death’s bosom calls me home,” Tom recited. “There. Now we can begin.”