The violence was glorious. The arterial spray was a cathartic release that the weapon had not expected for a very long time. The relief was blissful, but when his wielder did not cease the senseless murdering, the entirely uncalled-for slaughter of her friends and relatives, Gram felt his strength returning. He felt the pit of rage, that tiny, blazing star of hate filling with power. There was no better feeling, than that of hot blood, spilled from the heart of some poor bastard, running down his length, the ruddy fluid coating him in its coppery tang. A sword could know no greater ecstasy than that of being shoved to the hilt into an enemy, of being soaked in the vitality of those that were not its wielder. Surtr Nothung knew such pleasure once more, and the weapon cried out in victory.

The fire that bathed the blade and its wielder faded away as the pair observed their victory. This woman had vanquished her enemies, and seen them driven before her. All she was missing was the sound of their women lamenting. He supposed she also missed her opportunity to enslave the survivors, but he didn't much care about that. The weapon only wanted to deal death and taste the end of life. What went on in between wasn't really his concern. Being a sword, there was not much else to be concerned about. [i]"You did it."[/i] Gram encouraged as Tikki observed what she had done. [i]"It was gorgeous. Glorious. You're a hero now!"[/i] the blade praised the woman who gripped it, but it was quickly realizing that she wasn't going to be too happy about things, if the tears in her eyes were any indication. She had slain her own family, after all. That was okay, though, that just gave her less reason to go back to them. Now she could safely wander the world, and become a peerless warrior. Or find him one. Either way, Surtr was not about to fade into history so soon. He wanted to be the weapon of the world's deadliest warrior. If that was not this slip of thing, the bird-girl adventurer who had taken things to far, well, that wasn't his problem. 

[i]"This is your chance, my dear. Your opportunity! Excelsior! Carpe diem! Carry this victory onward! Let us rout the world with our might! Bathe me in enough blood, and you'll be invincible! Immortal! Keep going, and I can grant you any wish!"[/i] the blade was straight up lying at his point. It had worked before, so it saw no reason to not try it again. Every adventure seemed to start this way, with the delectable slaughter of an innocent family. Their succulent flesh rent asunder by the unstoppable weapon. An act so horrible that his wielder saw no reason to even try to repent. And his promise of wishes was a good one. Hoping for the impossible, the one who held the blade would slaughter hundreds, thousands, trying to bring them all back to life. And with a little encouragement. [i]One more soul! Two more souls, and I can do it all![/i] they would continue forever. Nothung would never be satisfied, though. And it would never have enough souls to bring those it had slain back to life.

No one had to know that, though. They just had to swing him in anger. As long as the blade flashed through the air on wings of rage, as long as its fire burned with hatred and blood was spilled in the name of anything, the sword was unstoppable. All it took was a little push. Once his wielder began to descend into madness, everything else would just fall into place, like the necks of the damned, awaiting execution...