“Consumed by darkness, those that taste my blade, shall know a champions sorrow”

Forged from the molten rivers of adamantine, quenched in the rich dark crimson of orc blood. One hundred ground skulls of orc chieftains make up its core, each slain in a duel for the clan’s honor. Wrapped in the skin of a great elder white dragon, its glistening cold bones woven into the guard. Amalgamated in the still warm body of a divine warrior, his quest for holy retribution still burned as the sword was poured into his chest to form the blade. Given the heart of an angel at its core, and the blessing and will of a greater demon, the blade was birthed into the hands of the warrior with enough despair to wield it. Boasting curling dark flames, the hiss of shrill souls being bathed in an ever flame of torment, all who would be struck with it, suffer eternally, the nightmares never ending.

The poster I made for our Monk who wields this sword, its not as evil as it looks, its twice as much.