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“It will bring a torrent of destruction unto this world. Take in hand the onyx blade of the crying rose, and embody its cursed name to your waking days of insanity. May your foes be struck down like the decay of winter, as the petals of the spring trees fall and rot in the dirt below.”
What does it feel like to possess true power? To be without rival? To never walk in the shadow of another. Knowing each and every sunrise no quarter will be given through your hands. Your hands that could hold a soul under till the evidence of life had given way. Would you use those hands to uphold the laws and injustices in the world, or spread them until anarchy was the one true master? To raise the standard of a prospering nation with pride, as the legions behind deafen your ears as you roar into battle.
Or do you merely engage in a battle of wits? Staring deep into a shattered man’s soul only to find he is empty inside. Feed off his pain, his anguish, break what grasp he has left on this world if only for a second to feel elevated above another. What a terrible weapon, the mind. Physical wounds are satisfying to some, but until a mind has been reaped of its worth the joys of watching a grown man crumble before you is a delicious feast.
When it comes to war, the ultimate goal is to gain power. By defeating one’s opponent, that goal is achieved.
There has been no better tool to gain power than the Scars Meadows, the onyx blade of the crying rose. Its blade, jet black, so dark that those unworthy to wield it are lost in their own reflection as they stare into its gaze. Above its hilt stained in the blade is a single purple rose. When the blade is taken in hand, the petals of the rose are renewed. Once the weapon strikes down foe after foe, the petals are slowly consumed by the darkness of the blade. Once this has been achieved, your sanity belongs to the weapon and you become one with its evil.
Rest is unneeded for metal needs no physical sustenance. As long as the grasp is maintained the blade will continue to feed off the wielder’s soul. Every victim is robbed of both body and soul at the strike. Their memories wiped, their bones misshapen. Blood is shed without remorse; the blade continues to seek out those who have caused injustice to the bearer. Striking them down without question, without quarter. Until every loved one, every memory is wiped from existence can the grip be removed. Only then is consciousness regained, and the pain sets in. The beauty that was once a man’s life is gone. Left only to stare into the blade stripped of sanity. The task is complete; there is no other to stand in your way. Power has been achieved as nothing remains to question your authority.
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All my guild has told me is, I should be writing more. So any other constructive criticism would be more than welcome.
