Obsession

It torments me. It drives me. Where does the quest end and the man begin? I have forsaken everything for this doom. I am estranged from clan, mocked by my peers and have traded love for a broken dream.

The Sword of Alakoring is lost to men. Time has claimed it, for since I learned of it, ever have I sought it, but to no avail. Every season I head to the temple, where they grudgingly allow me time to pray, and I sacrifice for the divinations that will tell me that the sword has been found. I pray to mighty Orlanth, and my faith is answered, for he gifts me magic and has saved my life twice. This quest must be just, but even He can shed no light on the location of the sword.

With my loyal followers, Storm Voice and mighty thanes, I seek it in the Elder Wilds, where the cowardly Elf-King lived when he slew mighty Alakoring from afar. I have sanctified a small hill in the middle of the mighty plains, and now I am able to return to the wilds at will, and in the blink of an eye, borne on the chariot of Mastakos.

Every season I have sought divine intelligence of the Windsword, and now, finally, and after ten years of searching it is seen once more. I see a mountain of stone in the middle of a mighty plain, and I know this mountain – I have seen it before. I suppress the hateful realization that I have travelled within a few miles of this place several years ago, and frequently used it as a landmark in my explorations. How close had I been and not known it?

The vision burns in my mind’s eye as I tighten the buckles of my iron armour. How have other interlopers come to reclaim the Sword when I have searched so long and hard? What bitter fate has denied me? I run my thumb along the length of my sword, and feel the keenness of its edge and the soft purr of the allied spirit contained within. All for this. Ten years for this moment. All the sacrifice, all the pain, all the loss. This, or Humakt’s cold grasp, I swear it.