The Blade
Steel does not care who holds it.
A sword is a tool. What matters is the hand that wields it, the discipline that guides it, and the cost paid to master it.
The old schools are gone. What remains are fragments. Whispered techniques. Half-remembered oaths. And the scars of those who tried and failed.
On Discipline
There is no magic in the sword. Only precision. Only repetition. Only the willingness to bleed until the body remembers what the mind cannot.
The greatest swordsmen do not think. They move. Not because they are fast, but because they have already made the choice a thousand times before the blade was drawn.
"You do not master the sword. You master yourself. The blade is just proof that you did."
— From the teachings of the Iron Vale
The Old Forms
Before the kingdoms fell, there were schools. Monasteries hidden in the hills where students would train for decades under masters whose names have been lost.
These forms still exist, scattered and incomplete. Some are remembered by traveling swordsmen. Others are carved into the walls of forgotten ruins. Most are gone forever.
What follows are fragments. Interpretations. What little remains.
The Iron Form — A defensive discipline focused on endurance and counterattack. Students were taught to outlast their opponent, to weather the storm and strike only when the opening was absolute. It required patience most warriors did not have.
The Falling Leaf — An offensive technique emphasizing speed and momentum. Practitioners moved in constant motion, never allowing the opponent to set their stance. It was beautiful. It was deadly. And it left the wielder exhausted if the fight lasted too long.
The Red Path — Not a form, but a philosophy. Those who walked the Red Path believed that every strike should kill. There was no defense, no retreat. Only the commitment to end the fight before it began. Most who followed it died young.
Legendary Weapons
Some blades carry names. Histories. Curses.
These are not magical. They are simply well-made, well-kept, and soaked in enough blood that people remember them.
Gravethorn
A blade forged in the northern foundries before the collapse. Its steel was dark, almost black, and it never dulled. Those who carried it claimed it felt heavier with each life it took.
The last recorded bearer was a mercenary named Corvin. He disappeared near the Hollow Ridge fifteen years ago. The sword was never recovered.
"It doesn't sing when you draw it. It growls."
— Corvin, three days before he vanished
[Additional entries to be added]
The blade is not a path to glory. It is a commitment. And commitments have consequences.