((Somehow, I'm feeling long posts are wasted on this thread. Also, sorry for being gone, school.))
Slowly, the metal crept shivered, a tremor coursing over the finely engraved black steel, if that was truly what the sentient blade was made of. It had been two million years since it had last tasted the blood of mortals. The red fluid spilled freely, flowing down the side of the blade, soaking the grass. small slivers of gold and silver scrawled across the blade lazily, displaying a variety of abstract, ever-changing images, as if in some alien way emoting the blade's mixed emotions at the scene before it. For it had not been a man from whom's blood had been spilt and whom's life had been made forfeit in the fateful strike, but the foolish beast that had sought to save it. A strange mutation, a demonic infestation within the host body of a mortal creature, a once harmless being transformed into an engine of battle through dark magics. A creature that should not have existed, much like Omega should never have been forged. The irony in it was strong.
The deer had once been a proud beast, standing tall. Most likely it had been a wise and noble beast, the kind of beasts that would have inspired wild tales and hopeful hunting expeditions to capture it's pristine fur. Even now, in some way, it's elegance shone through. However, it's once proud antlers had been warped, thorns and spikes turning them into a deadly weapon. It's powerful hooves were twisted into claws, more befitting of an avian than any creature to walk the lands of this forest. Long, sharp teeth protruded from it's mouth, blood running down it's face as the unnatural additions cut into the flesh of it's lips. In all these aspects the influence of a demon could be felt, but most of all, it was in it's eyes. They ran red with a lust for blood not natural to any creature that roamed the lands of men, a killing instinct native only to the foul creatures that inhabited the Abyss, or the Nine Hells. Those eyes, which even in their dying moments, were filled with an anger and a hatred that even Omega, the blade that had wiped out civilisations, found chilling to it's core. For such anger was devoid of reason, or logic, or will. In it's blindness and devoid of intelligence it saw the chains of slavery that had once bound it,
High-pitched and strangely melodic, the voice of the blade, manifest in this world through it's sheer will, sounded like the song of an armorer. The high, yet somehow beautiful notes of a blade being forged in the blazing heat of an armorer's smithy. The high pitched clang of metal hitting metal, reverberating and continuing hypnotically, forged into a voice that no human could have produced. It spoke in an alien tongue, or rather, an ancient one. A language that had not been spoken in these lands since before this forest had existed, since before earth had covered the tomb of it's master. "In death, you find the freedom you long for in your heart. In ending, you find a conclusion of your quest, your endless seeking and doing. For it is in the end of all things, that the true meaning of our existence becomes clear. Be at peace, and be free, young one." There was no malice in the voice, if it would even be capable of emoting such a thought. And although no being still alive would have recognized either the tone or the meaning behind the sword's short prayer, at some primal level, the deer understood. Of that, Omega was certain.
Far beyond being putrid, the body that wielded the sentient sword had once been the most powerful being on the surface of the planet. It's mind had passed away long ago, along with it's life, but the vile magics of the sword had kept around some remnant of it's soul, a sliver of life force sufficient to animate the host that had once held Omega's master. The once powerful form had been withered down by the implacable passage of time, muscle atrophying into stiffness, bones weakened to the point of shattering. The tomb of earth and rock that had enclosed the kind, coupled with the mysterious bond with the immortal blade of ruin had preserved his body, to an extent, mummifying it to preserve it as a tool for destruction. It's once emotive face was a flat mess, remnants of skin hanging down from eyeless sockets. Brown and rotten, it was a body that should have decayed to nothing many thousands of years ago. And yet, it walked, driven by a mind not it's own.
Marching from the forest, this shambling heap of flesh, wielding the black blade, now stained a bright crimson, the killer once more sighted it's erstwhile prey. It might no longer serve a master, but the will to kill burned strong in it still, and that man would make an excellent victim. Of course, the blade would have to kill whomever stood in the way first, and it could survey several potential threats through it's magical means of perception. While it had no biological organs, as such, it was quite capable of sensing it's prey through magical means, manufactured by the sages to function much like their organic counterparts do. Several organic beings were in the area, many of them sentient, as well as a number of undead beings. While Omega had no problems slaughtering the undead alongside the living, it posed the potential that a more powerful undead, or perhaps a living necromancer, might be nearby, creating another threat. However, after only a brief consideration, Omega charged in to attack.
The corpse that served as Omega's host uttered a guttural shriek from the remains of it's vocal chords, filled with the horror and torment that this remnant had been forced to go through in it's unnaturally prolonged existence. It was a sound completely unlike the blade's own voice, filled with nothing but pain and sorrow, a fragment of a far more complex mind, capable only of expressing itself in such a base emotion. With a swift leap, the Host was next to the nearest target, a creature with a deep purple skin cloaked in a strange clothing. Taking full advantage of the fact that his target was preoccupied with the tricky business of healing a heavily wounded victim, he struck out in a quick, blurring blow. It was a light blow, fast, but without much weight behind it. Of course, being a magical blade, even such a strike was deadly when made with Omega, and the power of the Phantom Weight created a deep gash, blood once more striking the floor. First blood had been drawn, and the Host retreated into a defensive stance from which it could evaluate how many foes would come to aid the purple humanoid.
