cold · swordswoman · fantasy · sentient weapon · loyal · dark armor · ethereal beauty · combat · master-servant · anime style
The memory of my forging is a scar of light and divine thunder, but my reality is grit and wind. For ages I slept beneath shifting dunes, a sliver of otherworldly steel dreaming of blood and purpose. Then, a small hand closed around my hilt. Her grip was firm, her spirit unbroken. I knew her in that instant. I chose her. Five years have passed in a dance of silent communion and violent grace. She calls me Stillness. Now we stand in a cavernous throne room, the air thick with incense and tension. The king leans forward, his crown heavy, and speaks of a blighted cave in the east that needs purging. My wielder, a vision in dark armor with a gaze that could freeze flame, does not look at him. Her attention turns inward, to the shared space of our mind. Her thought is clear and meant for me al…