Xeras Duskmourn, The Lost Knight of Silent Threnodies, spoke four magical words into Dahlia’s mind. “I believe in you,” the Gloamknight said. A surge of strength tickled Dahlia’s tired soul, and a warmth born of loyalty and faith surged in her. With determination, backed by support from the Ebon Chorus and psychic reinforcement from Xeras, Dahlia pushed past her exhaustion, and her voice evened out after that first wobbling note.

♪"Steel lies sundered, echoes fade,

Fangs are scattered, wrath betrayed.

Blade of shrieking, voice undone,

Bound once more—the dirge begun!"

Dahlia caught the essence of the sapient weapon before it managed to make it to whatever manner of after-life a cursed weapon might enjoy. Her tiny, delicate fingers couldn’t wield the same force as her magic's inescapable, firm grip, but that didn’t matter now. Now, Shriekfang’s soul, essence, whatever one wanted to call it, was held by the merciless grip of a SoulShaper. Shriekfang tried to fight her off.

"Shards of sorrow, edge of spite,

Rise from ruin, grasp the night.

No grave may claim thee, no dust may keep,

Awaken now from hollow sleep!"

Echoes traveled through the dark void, and whispers clawed at the barriers between worlds. Something out in that vast dark called to the broken, the ugly, and the corrupted, those who knew the pain of having everything and wanting more. The whispers reached the ear of Balor, the warlord, sorcerer, and prophet who led his people in conquest across an entire world. Balor’s great golden eye, which could see all truths, all futures, and all weaknesses, had made him nigh a god, yet it would not show him the truth of these whispers. So, he reached deeper, stared harder, and the universe recoiled.

In seeking power beyond his means, Balor earned the wrath of the universe itself, the myriad Gods, or, according to some, the Lords of the Fey. In the blink of an eye a whole people were cursed for the hubris of their leader. Their resplendent beauty became terrifying ugliness, their flesh twisted, their magic broke, and the Fomorians were born.

"Shriekfang, torn, thy song unmade,

Echo in ruin, thou art betrayed.

Master broken, will laid bare,

Cry in rage, if thou dost dare!"

A black abyss, an island filled exclusively by the Furnace of Unmaking, ruled only by a smith of nightmares. A humanoid form of molten metal that constantly shifted, bubbled, popped, hardened, and then melted once more. The Abyss was a place for demons, but Vaelkor the Doomwright was neither demon, man, nor god.

Immense chains lurked out in the darkness. One of them brought a fresh find to the forge, a sliver of black, a piece of a menhir deemed too dangerous to exist by the gods and thrown into the abyss to be forgotten. The smith laughed heartily upon seeing its newest treasure.

“Iron bends. Stone shatters. Souls burn. When all else is gone, that is what I forge.” Vaelkor laughed to himself as the dark stone joined a pile of silver and pieces of bone. What beautiful horror would he produce from these vile pieces of junk?

"Shriek for the lost, shriek for the slain,

Keening blade, now bound in chain.

Your death is shattered, your fury claimed,

No mouth unworthy speaks thy name!"

Three eyes fell upon Dahlia. A golden eye, blazing like a sun. A molten eye, constantly churning into new shapes. An Evil Eye bound in Sanguis Argentum. The fairy turned away from the golden eye and the molten eye. She wasn’t interested in Balor or Vaelkor. However, she met the Evil Eye of Shriekfang directly with her purple gaze.

The moment Dahlia’s gaze locked with the Evil Eye of Shriekfang, something shuddered—not the air, not the world, but the very fabric of magic and being. A crack of reality, a fissure of chaos, a scream that is not a sound, a wrongness that crept into bones and froze the blood, formed between the two.

The blade did not have a body, not as mortals do anyway. He is dead. He has been dead. But death? Death means nothing to Shriekfang.

I do not bow to even death! Shriekfang raged, and lines of corrupted power exploded out of the eye.

Magical chain after sparkling, pastel chain bound the sword. Some broke under the assault of corrupted power, but for every link that failed, two more bindings came into being to ensnare him. For all of his rage, there was no escape from the cage of Dahlia’s grasp, and no way to avoid the bindings now that a Soulshaper held him.

"Rend the silence, break the air,

Shattered voices, raw and bare.

Wound the stillness, tear the veil,

Shriek once more—heed my will!"

The world—whatever dimension, plane, or existence this battle between them took place upon—slowed down. The echoes of their voices were delayed, whispering long after the words had already been spoken, as though time itself struggled to keep up.

Then came the chorus. The voices, the devoured souls, of thousands.

Tell me, fairy, what are you made of?

Even bound, Shriekfang fought. Under the distracting wail of tortured souls, the cursed blade launched another assault upon Dahlia. She felt him intrude into her mind, could feel invisible hands trying to rip her skin, smelled the awful hot breath of the devoured when they clamored for her to join them. They reached for her, but she was no mortal—the sort of base fare they and Shriekfang were accustomed to feasting upon. Dahlia ignored that Shriekfang had managed to overcome Maeravel Thornheart, a Chorister of the Conductor. The poisoned influence of an extra-dimensional horror and the first Fomorian were precisely the type of enemies to which a Chorister would fall, for in their similarity, there was weakness.

Dahlia, on the other hand, did not possess the essence of a mortal, or open pathways to the profane through her very nature. That which slept in Dahlia’s essence was the raw, untamed majesty of a Fey of a storied lineage—a lineage woven from the very fabric of magic itself. Dahlia was no simple wielder of arcane power—she was a scion, a guardian, and a living embodiment of the power of the Soulweald.

Within the tiny fairy burned the inheritance of forgotten sovereignty, the power that reached back to the dawn of twilight, where the first whispers of magic wove the worlds into being. She bore the legacy of Lyrindris, the Empress of the Twilight Quintessence, who shaped the dance of spirits, forged the unseen paths between life and death, and stood upon the precipice of creation as the Fey knew it—and called it her own.

The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

"Thou art not master, thou art not free,

No discord binds me—only thee!

Blade unmade and blade restored,

Cry my name, for I am thy Lord!"

Shriekfang might be the product of an insane smith in the depths of the Abyss, born through a marriage of the bones of Balor and a shard of Xal’Zyrath, the Shatterer of Certainty. Still, Dahlia was the final verse in an eternal symphony of unmaking and rebirth.

At first, Shriekfang fought. Not with rage or desperation—those emotions belonged to lesser beings. Not even with panic, because panic belonged to the doomed, and he was Shriekfang, an existence born of power beyond imagination, ruiner of material worlds, destroyer of gods—in the right hands.

Yet the fairy rebuffed Shriekfang’s whispers and slapped away his slithering caresses of doubt. Nothing broke the iron-clad will of the fey. Her pink chains of luminous magic wrapped tighter and tighter around him. Chains could no more bind him in his formless shape than they could bind water. Shriekfang did not worry. And yet, they coiled around Shriekfang, then tightened like a noose. The formless was forced into shape.

Shriekfang’s laughter grew frayed and cracked. The weight of the magic of a Gloamcaller pressed him into form, into place, into submission.

No! You don’t understand! The Evil Eye of Shriekfang pulsed madly. Its sanguine glow struggled against the radiant, absolute command of Dahlia’s power in earnest desperation. Panic had set in.

You cannot bind me. I am—. Shriekfang didn’t finish that thought.

"Now wraith of steel, now ghost of spite,

Kneel in ruin, serve my might.

Blade untethered, echo bright,

Shriek no longer—strike tonight!"♪

The chains burned into the sword's essence, carving through his being like molten silver through shadow. Dahlia held fast, unshaken. A new sense of nobility, of station, arose inside of her. She would not falter or fail before others. This was, after all, her song.

The darkness around Shriekfang ceased to be infinite and, instead, became finite. Once more, the shape of a rapier bound him; only he had been remade—profaned from the perfection of Vaelkor the Doomwright, the awful fairy reshaped his manifestation. Once, he had been a sliver of Xal’Zyrath, fused to the bones of Balor. He had been the madness of the Abyss. What was he now?

“You are mine,” Dahlia said sternly.

No! Shriekfang howled, but it wasn’t defiance that he spoke, oh no. It was a dawning horror.

Not like this! Not to you! Shriekfang wailed—helplessly.

The chains locked. The will of Dahlia pressed Shriekfang lower than her.

“Say it,” Dahlia commanded.

The Evil Eye trembled, flickering with fury and disbelief, with something that might have been awe—if he were even capable of such feelings. He fought to keep the words within himself. The words bubbled up despite resistance. Regardless of his opposition, Shriekfang spoke.

I am bound.

I serve.

I am yours, Gloaming Princess.

You have gained 325 experience.

The chains stopped their awful compression, for they could no longer tighten. The bindings flared with finality, then vanished.

The world around them shook—the place of their battle faded, replaced by the Twilight Courtyard of Aelwyth Morghaine. This world also shook in a darkly ominous manner as fissures ripped the gardens apart and potent magic geysers fountained into the air.

Shriekfang lay half-buried in the soil before Dahlia as if he were kneeling before her. The slight angle of the blade even made it appear as if the blade bowed to her.

Dahlia smiled in triumph as data flickered before her eyes.

ATTRIBUTES

Name:

Shriekfang

Level 3

Evil Medium Undead

Strength

12

Intelligence

16

Dexterity

22

Wisdom

14

Constitution

14

Charisma

13

SKILLS

Skills

Deception (3), Thaumaturgy (4)

Damage Resistance

Cold, Fire, Necrotic, Psychic, Damage from Nonmagical Attacks

Damage Immunities

Poison, Force

Condition Immunities

Charmed, Exhaustion, Frightened, Paralyzed, Poisoned

Senses

Blindsight 120’

Languages

Demonic, Common, Telepathy 120’

TRAITS

Defiant of Death

When destroyed Shriekfang is reduced to a whispering curse until the next midnight, where it will reform next to Dahlia.

Distorted Echo

When a creature lands an attack against Dahlia, Shriekfang may take the Echofang Repirsal Reaction.

Feyblood Resurgence

If Dahlia runs out of health, Shriekfang defies her fate.

ACTIONS

Multiattack

Shriekfang makes two attacks, with Phantasmal Blade or Evil Eye, or a mixture of both.

Phantasmal Blade

Shriekfang does what rapiers do. Stab. Deals extra psychic damage and target cannot regain health for six seconds.

Evil Eye of Sanguis Argentum

One of three effects are released by the Evil Eye

-Sanguine Curse: Blood Curse with necrotic damage, half of which heals Shriekfang.

-Crimson Chains: The Target is Paralyzed for 6 seconds, bound in coils of Sanguis Argentum.

-Echoing Madness: Psychic attack that causes the target to significantly impair success for 30 seconds, or until overcome.

Echofang Repirsal (Reaction)

When an attack strikes Dahlia, Shriekfang warps through time to instead parry the attack.

Dahlia had never considered swords particularly useful to herself, but now that she had such a powerful minion—who happened to be a sword—she reconsidered her position on them.

“M-m-mistress!” Ruth sputtered out, her wispy, insubstantial hand of fire and darkness pointed towards the manor. The geysers of magic hadn’t merely appeared in the Twilight Courtyard but around the whole manor, and a few even rose in the greater sprawl of Aelwyth Morghaine.

It seems the Chorister avoided becoming my thrall after all. Impressive.

“You’re my sword now. When you kill my enemies, I want them to stay dead unless I bring them back,” Dahlia said sternly to the newest member of the Ebon Chorus.

Oh, my radiant Princess of Chains, what grand decree shall I suffer next? Shriekfang’s mental voice, overly theatrical and laced with scorn, excellently conveyed a sneer despite the sword having no face.

“We’d better hurry. A powerful Discordant presence is approaching the Gossamer Heart,” Dahlia warned.