Honed Club of Flame
| Type | Weapon |
|---|---|
| Discovered By | Dahlgrim |
| Discovery Date | 2013-01-26 |
| Discovery Location | Winifael, Beluaterra |
| Abilities | Prestige +8 |
| Current Owner | Red Marlboro |
Hunting. Hunting never changes.
Dahlgrim Thunderwood had come to well appreciate this. The Seekers got the glory, gathering random scraps to make much ballyhooed scrolls with markedly trivial effects. Short of the night of terror he spent during the First Ecstacy of Unger, he'd yet to be impressed by any of their accomplishments. Hunting though, was good honest work.
For over a year, he had travellled the lands of the North, making his countrymen safe. It was a dangerous job, his older brother Cathar died within a week of adventuring, but it was fulfilling. He'd had his ribs shattered more times than he could count, but he had saved lives in the process.
Yet today, he steeled himself for a special task, the undead. He'd been wary of them since his oldest brother Venture died to one after months of adventuring. He himself had been put into a coma by them more than once. Yet, Winifael was infested, and his cousin Barbara Thunderwood couldn't put down every uprising in Thalmarkin.
He spent the entire night in the woods of Winifael, hacking through the unfeeling corpses of the victims of the Overlord. Surely many of them were warriors like he, and between hunts he grimly envisioned he himself as one of them perhaps twenty years from now. He wondered if Cathar and Venture died knowing what would become of them.
After the fifth batch, he saw an unnatural glow hovering amongst the brush. It looked like a torch but its flame had a ethereal hue to it, while the wood itself did not burn. Hypnotized by the sight, it barely missed him as he dived to the ground. A reanimated troll corpse loomed above him, its burning cudgel wound aloft for another strike. Dahlgrim quickly rolled to his right and found his footing as the downswing crashed by.
Slaying trolls was his trade, but undead trolls were another matter. As beastly as they were, trolls both bled and felt pain. He merely needed to slash and dance until they were worn enough to drop their guard for a kill shot. Alas, the undead had no need for blood and felt nothing. And thus he began the dismemberment. For an agonizing half hour he danced and hacked away limbs - he'd bring this beast to its knees one way or another.
With a roar of triumph, he shattered the undead troll's skull, and then he collapsed in exhaustion. Panting on the ground, he remembered his prize, the Honed Club of Flame. Errily enough it burned but was cool to the touch. Perhaps this was indeed the "Cold Flame" the Order spoke of. Surely they would have some interest in it.