20 Magic Swords

    Last month in the GLOG discord, we had a community drive to write up 100 magic swords. I got pretty into it! Some are items lifted from old campaigns, some were written for adventures yet to be run, and many are brand-new. I've prettied them up and added two that didn't make the cut to make a round 20, in case you needed to roll a D20 for a magic sword. 

 

    1. Bellringer, a massive +3 silvered adamant greatsword. Appears unimpressive, with a uniform patina of dull tarnished silver--until it is lifted in battle, where the tarnish clears like clouds to reveal a blazing silver light. As holy avenger, but includes tyrants and slavers in its portfolio of favored foes, alongside fiends and undead. Sheds bright light as torch. Severs chains and other implements of bondage without resistance, strikes with the sound of a great pealing bell.

    Forged on commission for a famous republican paladin, whose severed oath-finger was forged into the hilt. Following his death, the blade now drifts through history, with a habit of showing up in unlikely places when a likely soul is in need--changing shape or size to fit the hand that finds it. The blade does not speak, but the wielder may encounter the shade of the great knight in a dream--genial and violent, fanatically anti-monarchist, urging you to take on the cause of Revolution. Those who take up the Cause will be able to Smite Evil as Paladin, 2/day.  

    Currently heaped in a pile of low-quality looted weapons, in the armory-tent of an enslaving army. Waiting for the right hand to find it. Waiting for the moment to strike. Soon.

    2. Providence: a heavy +1 montante, a bodyguard's weapon; allows the wielder parry once per round; if you can already parry, you get to do it again. Once per round, when you witness another take damage, you may vanish and appear in the path of the blow, receiving the damage instead. Limited only by the sharpness of your vision.

    Currently held by a 3HD revenant at the sight of a recent massacre. The trade-road crosses a ford here, and the ambush must have fallen as the caravan struggled to cross; humans and animals lie dead among the burnt wagons. The revenant stands at the ford, blade raised, cloudy blue eyes staring sightlessly, mail shot through with arrows. Around it are strewn bodies of armed men. None made it through to the ford. None shall pass. 

    3. Whorl, a broken, variegated bronze schwerter, inlaid with sea glass. Functions as a tiny -1 dagger until plunged into liquid, where its true power manifests--cladding itself in a whirling blade of water [or otherwise]. A waterskin's worth of liquid makes it a +1 dagger, a barrel a shortsword. Larger blades must be drawn from natural waters, their size and power mirrored in the sword. GMs are encouraged to freestyle with special effects--a wine-blade inflicts drunkenness, a blood-sword might shrink to heal an ally. You cannot swim while holding this--it produces an irresistible drowning-machine current.

    Currently at the bottom of a deep pool, which it churns into a lethal roil. The pool is twenty feet wide and twenty feet deep. With a good lantern you can spot a bright gleam catching off something tumbling on the bottom, but to dive in is clearly suicide.

    4. San Benedict de Sale, a light +1  cane sword. The hilt and cane-sheath are of carved driftwood, and the narrow, blunt blade is made of consecrated salt. It's really not very good as a sword; against corporeal foes it strikes at -1 and shatters on a fumble. Against foes incorporeal, however, it is a devastating force, and deals double damage. The blade may be used as a chalk-stick to draw warding lines and circles, impassible to all manner of ghosts, ghouls and unclean spirits. Each 5 feet shortens the blade -1, and at -6 it is worn down to the nub. When the blade is full, you may shatter it upon a summoned foe with a shout to BEGONE, FOUL CREATURE, BACK TO THE PIT FROM WHICH YOU CAME; they must save against Banishment. The blade will regrow 1 segment per day submerged in brine or saltwater. (This can be used to turn a barrel of seawater into a barrel of freshwater.)

    Currently forgotten at the bottom of a well in a fishing village, encrusted within a massive salt-crystal. The miraculous well is the only source of fresh water within an hour's walk, and the villagers claim it was blessed by a saint, whose power lingers in the water. A misanthropic crank recently dumped a huge ill-tempered python down there, and it's really upsetting everyone. 

   5.  Entrenching Sword—hang on, isn’t this just a shovel? As a light +1 shortsword with a long wooden handle hilt. Allows the wielder to shift earth at a truly terrifying speed. Through anything less than solid rock you can carve a 5x5 trench in a round, and burrow yourself into a  foxhole as a reaction. If you got sandbags or boxes you’ll find you can fill them up as you go without even slowing down. Sword will give you pointers about geodynamics and bracing timbers—advice is good, but conservative, and prone to kvetching. Will always crit against mineral foes, and deal max damage against earthen ones.

    Currently held by a nasty, stinky, evil little goblin with a heart set on malfeasance and misadventure.

    6. BLOOD DRUNK SUN, a massive +4 macahuitl, flat inlaid with masterful pictograms of the Sun's mythic death and rebirth, haft wrapped in and trailing long tassels of brilliant plumage, edged with a jagged forest of razor-sharp obsidian teeth in every color of the rainbow. Catches the light brilliantly, for these are the very feathers and fangs of the Rainbow Serpent; this blade is a holy relic. Indeed, it is her high priest, boisterous and millenarian, bellowing with laughter, good news, and psalms.

    Roll damage twice, taking the higher; and on a crit chunk a limb clean off in a geyser of blood and shattered bone (usually, this kills people). This thing is a real gorefest, Chainsaw Massacre style. Everyone killed with this sword goes to Heaven: redemption for the sinner, salvation for the righteous, deliverance for the suffering. Their blood will fertilize the earth and their vital force shall rise to fuel the Sun, that it may continue to burn. Is this not the greatest good imaginable? The sword is Lawful Good and will constantly point out how killing [any random thing] is an undeniable moral triumph. It's a very compelling theologian.

    Track your kills by HD with this weapon--only living, blood-having foes count. Warm blood is a preference, but not a requirement. Livestock count but are seen as unsporting. 

    Every 10 HD slain, a tooth will dull and break off in the corpse (don't worry, another will grow to replace it shortly). Plant it tooth in dark soil with a handful of grains, and an hour later a warrior will sprout--a shade from the Blessed Land who consented to return and serve a while longer. They do not wish to tarry overlong. 

    [Blessed Dead: 2HD warrior, strong and fast, contemptuous of pain and death, charismatic. Disposition as indulgent great-granduncle/aunt who is also an eager honor-killer. AC as chain (unfeeling flesh), arise with 2 of: heavy 2-hander, medium 1-hander and shield, light bow and twenty arrows, 3 medium long-spears and atlatl. These weapons count as magic for resistances (from Heaven). Loyal-but-not-mindless undead, will stick around for the feat you called them for, but no longer than a fortnight. If you really annoy them they'll just discorporate and go home. When slain, collapses back into a mound of dark earth (kit included).]

    After 100 HD spilled into the soil, BLOOD DRUNK SUN will fully regain its lost power, and can casts spells as a Cleric of Sunlight and Fertility, with 4 MD. MD refresh after 20HD of kills. It will not heal wounds, and will only consent to Raise Dead with the understanding that the returned will be sent to the Blessed Lands at the shortest possible interval. It will forcefully advocate for wholesale reestablishment of the Temple of the Rainbow Serpent, with you as Chief Celebrant.

    From here, every 1000HD of blood shed within a solar year, solstice to solstice, will bless the land in the following year. Warm summers, mild winters, bumper crops and gentle rain. 10,000 HD within a year will result in a year of legend--twins and triplets for all, grand portents of destiny. Expect some Chosen Ones in a few years. 

    Should fewer than 100HD of sacrifices fall within the year, the following year will be hard--colder, dimmer, darker. This effect will compound.

    BLOOD DRUNK SUN is currently driven through the ribcage of the last High King in the frozen plateau of Leng; when plague and rebellion hit, the sacrifices failed, and for the last hundred years the sun has not risen for a hundred miles in any direction. The air grows thin; the very atmosphere has begun to condense into snow, and strange things from the alien depth of Night descend to earth as the darkness grows ever deeper.

    7. Pogo Sword: heavy +1 longsword with lugs way high up on the blade. Can be used as a big bouncy pogo stick. Hop around like a kangaroo, negate fall damage and bounce up just as high, deliver plunging pogo-pierces at precipitous paces. If you fumble you impale yourself. No Refunds.

     Currently On Sale Now!! At Jimmy Two-Leg's Secondhand Item Emporium!! 30% discount if you don't ask any questions and split town before dusk.    

    8. PROBLEM THIRST OBITUARY: a medium +1 dueling sword with a strangely ornate, overwrought hand-guard--in fact, a perfect insulator (there's a fuzzy little mitten-grip inside). The blade is shadowed steel perpetually crackling with frost and steaming mist, it is a bottomless heat sink. Leave it in a room and it will turn into a walk-in freezer within hours; dungeoneers are strongly advised to invest in a thickly padded scabbard. Speaks with a sweetly melodic voice, manner is slow, mournful, needy, always begging for just a little more heat, just a taste of warmth, please, darling, I am so cold--

    When fighting living foes who care about stuff like homeostasis, your blows force them to save BODY vs fatigue, as your blade saps their warmth, slowing them down as it whimpers yes, yes, more more more -- Heat-adapted creatures save at disadvantage, cold-blooded creatures don't get a save at all.

    Once a day, you may sink your sword-tip into something and take all of its heat at *once*, pulling in all heat within 30' of the blade. You can use this to freeze a body of water (or at least create a large ice-raft), warp and shatter a door, crack a wall, etc. On a critical hit, you may trigger it against a foe; if they are living, save or die; if successful or unliving (or just, like, real fukkin big) 4d6 cold damage and slowed. Consuming heat without planting the sword will deal 2d6 cold damage to everyone and prompt saves v hypothermia, as all surfaces instantly frost over.

    For the remainder of the battle, the blade will blaze incandescent with heat, and you deal an extra die of fire damage while your sword shrieks in immodest ecstasy; the weapon will be mundane for the following 12 hours as it sleeps it off.

    Currently hilted in an iceberg, Excalibur-style, that's been bobbing around a lake for the last few years. Locals have been entertained with the spectacle but the incessant caterwauling is getting old. Nobody really wants to get involved with that thing, though, and some really big seals have taken to hanging out on the berg.

    9. OLD MAN RIVER, a medium +2 bokken carved from an oar. The layering of water-stains through the curved grain has revealed a strangely compelling pattern. Despite obviously being a blunt, harmless training sword, if you hold it *just so*, its blows still land with lethal cutting force. You may choose, at will, whether you are dealing blunt or slashing damage, and whether you are dealing lethal or nonlethal. 

    The sword doesn't speak, but after a while holding it, you'll start to feel an urge to do some warm-up katas in the morning, which takes a half-hour. After a week of continuous practice, your mind and body are sharp, and you can act to nullify any one instance of damage dealt to you. You can't do this again until you've spent another full week maintaining your fitness, and if you drop off even for a day (including not getting any sleep) you gotta start over.

    Currently collecting dust on the training-room rack of a defunct fencing school. The school's master, in his prime, was a ferocious swordsman and a vicious man who systematically estranged himself from everyone in his life. Now, the weathering of time and the onset of senility has worn away his fangs. A lonely and regretful old dodderer, struggling to keep up the maintenance of his empty school. Desperate for connection, or even just conversation. 

    10. KEEP YOURSELF SAFE[CW: SUICIDE]: a medium  +1 messer; battered, greasy, utilitarian, ugly. Will speak to you in visions of death, mostly yours--broken at the bottom of a ravine after trusting a loose stone, throat cut by a knife from behind, choking to death on your own swollen tongue as the poison-trap takes hold. These are prophetic visons. +4 to initiative rolls. You get a few seconds of warning before an ambush, and cannot be surprised. You will similarly always know when a trap or similar peril is in the room, with a clue about what it might be (you don't know its exact location or nature). 

    Over time, it becomes difficult to separate the visions from your own thoughts. Perhaps they are one and the same? The visions grow dense. You watch your friends die with you. Death of poisons, lacerations, nooses. 

    After each full week wearing the sword, save against despair in your sleep. If you succeed, you'll wake up with the sensation that something is wrong, and some understanding of what's happening. If you fail, you don't notice. Everything is normal. It's fine. You're just a little tired.

    [Lose 1d4 off one of your mental stats as your thoughts grow thick and cold.] OR [Fill an encumbrance slot with Despair.] Every week you keep the sword, save again, with a -1 for every previous failure. If you've failed even once, you cannot willingly part with the weapon, and will fight to keep it.

    KEEP YOURSELF SAFE is currently in the possession of a dying junkie. They have been unconscious in a corner of a derelict flophouse for 10 hours and their bony arms have locked around a bundle that contains the sword and a few meagre possessions. They used to be a dungeoneer of some renown. Even after years of burned bridges, their old party--back in town--is asking after them with a mix of hope and dread.

    11. DOUBLE OR NOTHING: A medium +2 tachi, incredibly showy. Brightly colored sharkskin scabbard and hilt, floral patters, guilting (cracked and starting to flake), gaudy dragon design cut into bo-hi above the wave-patterned hamon. Like a shitty mall-ninja imitation katana, except real. Has the mien of an adrenaline-junkie party-hard showgirl, constantly nagging you to take risks, go wild, start fights, double down. Whenever you're somewhere cool enough to have a party scene, will demand the two of you go out and booze, chase tail, and especially gamble. Will refuse to be drawn if spurned, or if they judge you to be unspeakably lame. Has a weakness for grizzled, hardbitten types; make it swoon and it'll behave.

    Whenever you attack with this sword, you may choose to raise, aka make one more attack then you otherwise would. When you raise, the action passes to your target, who then gets their own choice; check (do nothing) or re-raise, attacking you back. If they raise action passes back to you with the same choice; this will go round until someone finally decides to check, at which point all attacks are rolled and resolved simultaneously.

    Worn at all times by an aging yakuza boss Fighter B/Criminal A], who treats it as his moll; they're currently toxic and sniping. During his long years of loyal service as an enforcer, he was feared and respected as a brutal, disciplined soldier; but now that he's in the big chair, he's starting to come apart at the seams, unprofessional and unpredictable, always sampling the goods then flying into a rage. And he's gotten fat. When drunk--as he often is--will fight at -2, but with a berserk disregard for his own well being.

    12. VANITY AND GLORY, a light +1 silver urumi, pommel inlaid with a priceless peacock mosaic in gems. Challenging to wield; unless proficient in urumi fighting, the weapon has no special properties and a fumble deals full damage to yourself. If you *are* proficient, you have a ten-foot threat range and ignore shields and parries; particularly skilled foes may catch wise and counter this after seeing it once or twice.

  Huge personality--fame seeking, risk taking, infuriatingly vain, unstintingly courageous. Chauvinistic, but in that Porco Rosso way, loves kids. Think Zorro by way of Bollywood. Can be very difficult to get on with, and will make a great show of demanding a wielder commensurate to his illustriousness, but has a secret soft spot for underdogs. If he senses a good heart with potential, will appoint himself your heroic mentor. First step--get some moustache wax.

  VANITY AND GLORY can tutor you as an expert in swordplay, martial techniques, acrobatics and bodybuilding[allows gain in templates in appropriate classes]. Additionally, has very *confident* opinions regarding fashion, poetry, and etiquette. If, in time, you are able to build a personal relationship and gain his respect, your rapport will produce a new level of synchronization in combat: VANITY AND GLORY will now be able to strike up to 15' away, and is capable of every Indiana Jones pulp fantasy whip stunt you can imagine. If you exceed this and win his true gratitude--a rare and remarkable feat--the legend will grow, and the sword becomes +2.

    He's been around a long time--you are, by most counts, the 6th wielder, and there's a whole subgenre of tall tales dedicated to their exploits. There are expectations; you will inherit many friends, and many more foes. Dangerous foes. VANITY AND GLORY is currently imprisoned in a lockbox, being transported by carriage in the dubious company of 4 looming, fridge-shaped gentlemen with hard eyes and dark coats (and bowler hats). They are the hands of the faceless criminal mastermind known only as Professor Plum. Two weeks ago, his partner for the last thirty-six years, beloved Brawler Rajan, was betrayed and cut down in his own home through the machinations of their longstanding nemesis. VANITY AND GLORY does not know where he is, or where they are taking him, or why. If freed, will be grateful, and willing to accompany you on a mission, but afterwards will seek to return home, avenge his friend, and unravel the mystery of the evil Professor Plum once and for all.

    13. LIMBO DOWN LOW. A light +1 sword. Formed of a single piece of strange metal (matte charcoal oxide finish). Shaped like a minute hand, long and straight and narrow. The handguard is a ring as though it might be threaded onto some great clockface. Embellished with golden scrollwork highlighting the midblade ridge, annoyingly elegant, consistent with archaic elven design. Impervious to damage, and indeed any form of outside influence--perfectly rigid, never warming nor cooling, liquids and dusts sliding frictionlessly from it. Still only +1 because the blade isn't that sharp to begin with. To practiced swordfighters it is frankly unpleasant to wield--a perfectly impervious sword is a totally inflexible sword, every shock being transmitted directly into your hand. Someone tried to mitigate this by binding a wood-and-cordage grip to the hilt; clashes terribly with the design but at least it doesn't cut your palm anymore.

    Wearing this sword grants perfect sense of time. You are constantly and precisely aware of: the time, its passage, and (via derivation from the previous two) how long anything's been since anything else. Effortless conversions and calculations between scales, Rain Man-style, included. Some potential applications:

• Know the exact time in any place you've been
• Infinite mental stopwatches--wake yourself up on time, never overcook your chicken, never miss appointments
• Estimate times from observed data--watch an hourglass pour or a fuse burn and know in your head how long until they're finished; accuracy may vary based on sample size and unaccounted for variables (how consistent is a fuse, really?)
• Awareness of lost or distorted time--could have implications regarding mind-altering effects, strange realms, might make it hard to dream properly

    Certain personalities may find this awareness extremely disconcerting.  

    At will, you may enact a mutual time-lock. Level the sword at something and will it to stop to freeze the both of you in time for 1d6+1 rounds. Disparity in strength will upgrade the duration of the weaker party's sentence by one grade per HD difference--turning rounds into minutes, hours, days, weeks, months, years, decades, centuries--you get the idea. While frozen, you are unmovable (relative to the world, no spinning-planet shoot-off-into-space shenanigans, the magic isn't *omnipotent*) and impervious as the blade itself. The sword will explain this to you; its contract requires the informed consent of the wielder to timelock. Contractual regulations, you see.

    Personality: Fastidious, exacting, strictly professional. Refers to everything in third person--you are "the client", it is "the agent". Doesn't like to talk, would prefer to just keep time (it's the one doing all the counting and conversions, putting them in your head directly). Will answer questions relating to its portfolio (time and the measurement thereof) in short, clipped statements, and declines to share any personal information (not relevant to the project).

    LIMBO DOWN LOW spent the last half-century in the possession Jenksen Sto Latrium, legendary explorer and navigator. Its timekeeping enabled his unparalleled success crossing the tractless longitudes, free from fickle and capricious water-clocks or chronodemons. Never once raised it in anger--he was a lover, not a fighter. The sword was gratified to have a client who appreciated the finer things (strict time records, and how they must be kept) and will speak fondly of him. Following his death (against all odds, peacefully in bed at tremendous age), no fewer than seven families hailing from disparate ports showed up for his funeral; the resulting fireworks have besieged the estate in a raft of squabbling relatives. The sword sits in a deposit box at the counting-house on Stew Lane, from whence exhausted executors are attempting to dispense his fortune as best they can. 

   

    14. SURFSWORD: Oh come on now. A massive +2 surfboard that somehow counts as a sword. It's hopelessly clumsy as a melee weapon, swinging at disadvantage and knocking you prone on a fumble, but it's the best damn surfboard you'll ever find. It'll teach you to surf--it's a friendly, positive teacher. Also, very good at predicting the weather. If you ever surf it into something, you attack with advantage, deal twice damage on a hit, and decapitate on a crit.

    Currently lodged into the shell of a monstrous, intelligent hermit crab. The crab is fact a merchant and collector with a curator's compound eye, and the board as an accent (akin to a feather in a cap) has started to get old. She's in the market for a trade, looking for something suitably showy. If you're rude she will snip off your head and eat you. 

    15. Pious Mantis, a paired set of light +1 hook swords that resemble segmented mantis claws.  The oversized handles cover a complex, arcane tensioning mechanism, that when wound up allows the user to fire and retract the hooks on the end of the swords, which are bound to the rest of the blade by impossibly fine yet strong chains. Attempting to wield one without the other tends to produce a dizzying vertigo.

    If you are proficient with hook swords, any maneuvers you know that involve tripping, pulling, or otherwise hooking are performed with a +2 bonus. The hookshot has a range of 30 feet, and when retracted winches back in at great speed and force. Weight capacity of each hook maxes out at 500 lbs, and each sword has enough spring-tension for 4 uses before needing to be tediously rewound (takes an hour, hurts your hands). Firing and retracting the hooks through foes allows you to make attacks and maneuvers at range, including pulling them to you or you to them (as weight allows). Just whipping them around loosely lacks the power and edge control to you need to fight--gotta spend tension. Try out all sorts of grappling-hook shenanigans.

     The swords are haunted; each night, you will dream of a human-sized mantis in saffron robes, who will bow to you before attacking; engaging you in dream combat with only what equipment your deepest psyche imagines yourself with. If you lose (probable) you wake with a start, gasping and sweating and swearing, and have a terrible sleep (regain 1d6 fewer HP than you would otherwise). The swords can be exorcised trivially by anyone with the slightest clue, which will drive the spirit off for a year and a day. If you win (or figure out another, perhaps wiser, way to satisfy her), you bow to each other, then awaken with the knowledge of a new martial technique; if you land a blow with each sword on one foe within a single round, you may rend them and saw the blades through, dealing 2d6 damage. 

    Currently driven through the eyes of an undead dire tiger, whose unearthly screams have been terrifying the local townships. It's totally blind and--even in death--mad with pain; it is crashing through the forested hills in a berserker frenzy, seeking to slaughter all life in its path. The local wildlife has fucked right off, leaving the hunters without game to salt for winter. In combat, will lunge at the loudest sound in its vicinity, and follows the scent of blood. 

    16. LITTLE SOLDIER BOY. A light  +1 smallsword, infantry standard issue. The blade is pitted, with signs of much sharpening, the hand-guard’s been replaced, and only the grip is new—a fresh rod of hardwood, tightly wrapped in jaunty red cloth. Look closer;  spiraling along the wrapping cloth in neat, tight stitches is embroidered a small, rustic prayer to St. Brigid for bravery and protection. Do you recognize the needlework?

    Strike the blade on stone or steel to produce a bright flower of sparks—brighter and larger than seems possible; lingering long enough that you may find your way in the dark by their light, if only for a few moments. This may spook animals, startle the unsuspecting, momentarily dazzle an eye in the darkness. If nothing else, it’s heartening.

    In the cold—the night—the damp—the dark—kneel on the ground, plant the sword-tip in your tinder, and whisper the prayer to St. Bridget. Strike the blade. Your sparks will catch, and the fire  will burn, regardless of how wet it may be; to at least a small campfire, and for at least an hour (though you may of course feed it). The light and warmth of this flame seems particularly comforting, and dark things will hesitate and shrink, shirking its light. Torches and brands lit from it will preserve this property, at least until sunrise.

    Currently: at home, collecting dust upon the mantle. Waiting to be needed again.

     “In the darkness, send a spark to guide them. Let them come home.”

    

    17. IT GETS OLD, a tiny +1 dagger with a mocking drama mask molded into the pommel. Slices any item of currency like butter, leaving 2 perfect copies of the original. Forged by a demon to torment the economies of man. 

    Currently held by a simple-hearted greengrocer who uses it for petty cash and small charitable donations. Demon's getting annoyed. If word gets out of what this thing is, expect complete pandemonium.

    18. WHICH WAY TO COPPERCAPS'S?!, an old light dwarven gladius. No +, still (technically) a magic weapon. A souvenir of an infamous marketing boondoggle that saw thousands of these pumped out. At any given time, balance the blade on its tip, then let it fall; invariably, it will fall to point the shortest path to the nearest barrel of Coppercap's Famous Dwarven Ale. The pommel bears the old logo, a winking dwarf granny, and if you flick it still spouts in a faint, tinny voice "a ha'penny off the first pint!" Despite the collapse of the original brewing house due to catastrophic financial incompetence, the ale recipe was coopted by a rival and remains relatively popular.

    Currently propping up a shelf in a local tavern, whose proprietor has damn near forgotten about it--been a long and happy retirement from adventuring for him. If only someone could help clear out those damn rats in the winecellar...

    19. AMOST EKAST, a heavy +1 dwarven swordspear. A genuine masterwork of the lost arts, the blade crowded with a dense network of enchantment-weaving runes that spell out its name--TOWNSAVER, in the ancient tongue. A skilled antiquarian or smith, however, will pick out an incongruous haste in its construction, as though it were forged in a real damn hurry. When wielded in the defense of a group of civilians, the sword is +3; when raised to defend a permanent settlement from true calamity, it is +5. Great Foes struck by this weapon lose all special abilities for a full round--spells falter, the vampire can't turn into bats, the dragon's flame becomes a squib. When the blade is empowered, you will draw the full weight of the assault, and may continue to fight through lethal wounds [into negative HP, depending on system], but when the sword is torn from you or the battle ends, you will drop stone-dead.

    TOWNSAVER can be found thrust into the breast of the great dragon Vulkan, the Living Eruption; its hilt is barely visible, peeking from the black scab encrusting it. It has lain there for the last 4 centuries, since the Last Runesmith drove home his final creation with desperation and terror as his city burned. Vulkan, alas, was too mighty to be slain, and the great city of Thandograz is a house to only ash and ghosts. But the blade has weakened him terribly, clouded his fire-crystal mind, silenced his legendary sorceries. With the sword driven through him, he is reduced to a common drake. He has not left the ruin since.

    20. This Is A Love Story, a colossal +3 dirk of surpassing beauty. The blade is the size of a grown man, the mirror-bright steel inlaid with masterful scrollwork. The handle is bound in ivory cords woven in an elaborate pattern and shot through with threads of gold, and at the end is tasseled with a ribbon of sky blue fringed in gold--2 feet wide and six feet long, waving proudly in the breeze like a banner.

    Clearly sized to fit in the hand of a giant, the weapon should be impossible for a human to wield--if the wind wasn't lending a hand. In fact, the massive blade appears nearly weightless, as the air itself conspires to lift and swing it in time with its wielder, for whom the experience is somewhat like swinging around a maypole. You will find yourself immune to fall damage, as the wind drifts you gently to earth, and can take great booming leaps through the air--you may leap up to your full movement vertically, and triple that in distance, though it will take you a full round to hit the ground after. If you jump from a height with the right wind, you can catch hold of the banner-tassel to use as a parasail.

    Your lungs fill with pure, invigorating air; increase all your stats by one category, and you are immune to disease. You may cleanse others from disease by breathing into their lungs. You can speak to the winds, and may bargain for favors with them. The winds prize chivalric tales and daring feats, but above all else they hunger for love stories. If you help new ones blossom, each such story will get you a favor free of charge. 

      You--you know this blade. Your great-grandda told you tales of it when you were very young, a toddler on his bony knees. A tale of his youth, when the world was younger and still full of magic; when the long and bitter war between the giants of the air and giants of the earth seemed to be at an end. Lughana, brightly-shining, of the white-cloud and swift-wind, forged this as a betrothal blade for Balor, the stoic lord of mountain and hill. The sordid tale of how their fateful wedding came to a bitter end is long and tired--but you know the disappearance of the blade, this blade, was the turning-point. Now the giants have vanished to the distant places beyond kenning, and the world grows dull and pale; the magic fades, the people suffer. 

    But now you've found it. Maybe...maybe you can fix it. If you go out into the wilds beyond the world, and find the long-lost giants, perhaps you may mend the most famous love story of all. 

    This Is A Love Story is currently stashed in a shallow underwater cave, itself hidden in the shadow of an abandoned stone bridge. The bridge and cave is the haunt of Jenny Greenshanks, a miserable three-headed troll, who is always sneering and wrathful and weeping all at once. She loves the stoic Lord Balor with an ugly, selfish fervor, and the stolen blade represents some measure of triumph to her--for a miserable heart may find some shadow of joy in the infliction of more misery. She cannot be permanently slain by any weapon that yet remains in the mortal lands, and so long as you carry her prize she will return to stalk you. One measure of solace; her heads constantly infight and browbeat each other; the wind will carry you echoes of this din when she is near.