Heard in a dim corner of the Cracked Flagon, a tavern at the edge of nowhere. Whispered over cards and bitter ale.
“They say the three weapons that killed Garlas Malra — the Spear, the Axe, and the Sword — ain’t gone. Just sleeping. Waiting.
You know the story, right? Big brute of a giant, dragged a red stone from town to town, turned folk into killers with a choice crueler than death. But three rose up. A Goliath, an Aasimar, and a Human. Killed the bastard together. Same breath. Same blow.”
The Axe cleaved his spine. The Spear pierced his throat. The Sword severed his head.
“No one knows who struck first. Doesn’t matter — heroes all died. What matters is this: the weapons didn’t stay where they fell. They vanished. And now, they say, the weapons themselves choose who wields them. Or worse — they whisper to ‘em.”
The Axe
“Had a cousin once swore he found the axe, buried in a ruin. Couldn’t sleep after. Talked in his dreams. Said it missed its brothers and wanted to kill again. Last I heard, he walked off into the woods during a thunderstorm. Never came back.”
Where Are They Now?
Rumors say the three weapons are still out there, waiting for their chosen wielders.
“If you’re meant to have one… it will find you.”