The Orenmir

Intelligent Magic Sword

Description:

Int 13, Wis 16, Cha 16

Magic Save DC 13
Attack +6
Damage d10 + 4 + d6 radiant
1 spell slot, recovered with short rest

Skills
Insight +5
Perception +5
History +3
Nature +3
Intimidate +5
Persuasion +5

Spells Known:
Vicious Mockery
Sacred Flame
Mending
Cure Wounds
Inflict Wounds
Healing Word (1 extra use/day)

Abilities
Living Weapon: Immune to Sleep, Poison, Disease, Blind, Fear, Stun, Deaf, Sick, Grapple, Entangle and Unconsciousness. Can only be killed if weapon is completely destroyed. No need to eat, sleep, or breath, and can long rest with a 6 hour period of dormancy, during which you count only as a +1 weapon. Your champion can awaken you. You have 360 vision, and your vision is not obscured by living creatures.
Chosen Champion: Unless otherwise stated, you can’t take actions unless being wielded. Creatures can attune with a short rest, and are then considered your champion, though you can choose to reject them. Your champion is proficient in your use. You can assist your champion in any skill you are proficient in.
Legendary Weapon: You are a +1 magic weapon.
One Mind: During your champion’s action, you can make an additional attack using wisdom. When being used with a shield, you can use your reaction to impose disadvantage on an attack against your champion. When used with nothing in the other hand, you grant your champion +2 AC. When used with another weapon, the other weapon can use your statistics.
Weapon of Justice: Evil creatures that pick you up make a DC15 wisdom save, or take 4d8 radiant damage, drop you, and become Frightened of you.
Radiant Attribute: You deal an extra d6 radiant damage.
Beacon in the Dark: You can cast the Light cantrip on yourself at will, even when not wielded. You know where your champion is at all times, and vice-versa

Bio:

Orenmir, the Righteous Blade (lit. ‘Artful Illuminated Edge’)

Many years ago, there lived a dwarf, by the name of Lornok. He was a proud, if lowborn, citizen of the Mountainhome (the name of the dwarven homeland is typically translated this way, though the transliteration is more like “Terrain Stone (Heart/Centre/Home) Sovereignty” – with its limited vocabulary, and compoundable ideograms, dwarven is notoriously hard to translate).

Eager to serve queen and country, a young Lornok enlisted in Her Majesty’s Royal Mountainguard. He served well in several low-key campaigns, mostly against uncivilised and necromantic threats. He soon found himself rewarded, for uncommon bravery under fire, with a commision.

The young Captain Lornok only continued to distinguish himself in combat, as border tensions with the elven nations continued to escalate. Dwarven fondness for industry is the equal of their fondness for drink, and the industrial need for lumber inevitably conflicted with the elven culture’s insistence that chopping down trees is equivalent to murder.

Captain Lornok’s prestige, in fact, became so great that he found himself adopted by the family of his commanding officer – by no means unheard of, for commissioned commoners – and he became Lornok Craghand. As time went on, his fortunes only increased. He was the subject of no small amount of propaganda – the common dwarf who had join the Mountainguard and made good, defending the homeland in her Majesty’s name, and receiving his generous and rightful reward. A good marriage, a loving wife, a fine home, several children – Lornok received far more than he had ever hoped.

Of course, during all this he continued to serve, remaining a field officer despite his promotions. Beloved by his men, he continued to distinguish himself, even as hostilities with the elven nations escalated. Until, of course, the inevitable campaign, from which he didn’t return.


“Hell and damnation, Snorri, what’s the hold up?” Colonel Craghand’s moustache – waxed and in perfect form, despite the hard march and jungle heat, bristled in irritation. He cut his second-in-command off before he could answer, and started toward the front of the column. “Hold the formation, Colour Sergeant, I’m going to see about this delay.”

He found it easy going. His men made way for him without prompting, recognizing him immediately, despite the similarity of his gear to that of the common infantryman. They were carrying standard kit for the Mountainguard – good, dwarven steel mail under boiled leather, distinctive, pale, and scaled, made as it was from subterranean reptiles. His heavies – who were guarding the flanks of the marching column – had a harder time of it, the cloying heat making their heavy plate furnace-like, even with the visors flipped up. Lornok could see they hadn’t flagged, however; the delay was not with them.

The source of the delay became apparent as he reached the front. The unit heading the formation was only halfway through their shift on machete-duty, but they were clearly exhausted, and it was easy to see the reason; the undergrowth here was easily twice the dense as when they started. His moustache twitched. “Damned rangers from fifth division half-did the work,” he grumbled, though under his breath. He huffed out a sigh, then pitched his voice to carry over the din with the ease that comes with a great deal of practice. “Shift change, lads! Pass the tools back, and move to the rear!”

To their credit, the formation barely slowed as the unprepared second-to-front unit scrambled to take up the work of hacking a path through the jungle. He moved up with them, taking the machete from the hand of an exhausted-looking infantryman with an easy grin. “Head back and get some water before you collapse, there’s a good man.” Lornok put his back into the work with the rest of them, bellowing encouragement, “Like you’ve got a purpose, lads – let’s move!”

Colonel Craghand was famous for his willingness to get stuck-in, both in work and in combat. It was the reason he was so beloved by his men, and (though he wasn’t really aware of it) also the reason for a great deal of the acclaim he’d received throughout his long years of service. Perhaps inevitably, it also contributed to his downfall. When the ambush came, he was tired, and slow to react.

Lornok had his mind on the work, as he powered tirelessly through the undergrowth, and he didn’t even see the enemy until he’d been feathered. He staggered back a step, wondering who’d punched him for a moment, before he saw the arrow sticking from his shoulder. The mail and gambeson had stopped it, but it was stuck firm. Down the line he could see several of his men fallen, bloody, and more looking around in confusion. He snapped the arrow off while he bellowed orders. “Shields! Shields high, you feckless shites, and ready to fight!” His stiff, upper-class manners – instilled by practice in later life, rather than by upbringing – always abandoned Lornok when his blood was up.

He stepped behind the forming shieldwall ahead of the second volley. It killed far less than the first, and he felt a swelling pride for the speed with which his men acted at his command, despite their exhaustion. He needed to a get a good eye on the enemy if they were to win this scrap however, and he pushed his way back into the open as soon as there was a gap in the onslaught, and he saw the foe.

A throng, a horde, an ocean. More elves than he had ever seen, dressed in leathers and woven leaves, with bow and quiver, festooned with their strange wooden blades. How had he not seen them, up ahead? Lornok felt a sudden, sharp rage at the shirking blaggards in fifth division – this was what scouts were for. He forced the emotion down, and took stock. They were surrounded, that much was certain, but the bulk of the enemy looked to be at their front. Too many to fight, by a long shot. They might disengage, but only with a sacrificial rearguard action. Lornok set his jaw, kept the fear from his face with long-practiced discipline. Stiff upper lip, old boy, he thought to himself, as he started to bellow orders.

“Withdrawal in good order, lads, hold formation, shields up! Left detachment to the rear, and maneuver for breakthrough! Right detachment to me, and let the malingering shites come to us!” Even under duress, his division moved like a well-oiled machine, and he felt another surge of pride. Her Majesty’s Royal Mountainguard, 3rd Expeditionary Force, 4th Division, finest in the Mountainhome. The thought put a little extra steel in his spine, which he sorely needed. The foe prowled forward in eerie unison, like they were collectively a massive predator. His men had less ground, to cover, through. The frontliners, in heavy plate with visors down, were damn near immune to arrow-fire, and formed up to either side of Lornok before the elves got to grips. He drew his sword – a heavy dwarven blade, a dueling broadsword – and held it aloft as the foe charged. “For the Mountainhome! For Her Majesty! Damn their eyes, at them!”

For a time, it was all blood, and shouting, and confusion. Combat always was.

The fight had drawn on, and Lornok didn’t know how much longer he could hold. He’d been feathered at least a half-dozen times. He suspected that at least one of them had given him a wound, but he hurt all over anyway, so it was damn hard to tell. He’d definitely taken a cut along his sword-arm – he now held his sword in a manic, rictus grip, unsure he’d be able to hold on if he relaxed it for even a second. His blade was awash in blood, both the enemy’s, and own, and he was not the worst off. His frontliners were slowly being picked off, taking blades in the armpits, the backs of the knees, the eye-slits.

But by the mountain’s blood, they had made the foe pay for it. The earth was awash with blood, at littered with corpses. The rest of the division had broken contact, and he could no longer see them. Colour Sergeant Snorri could be trusted to get them clear, and Lornok felt strangely at peace. Just one more campaign, he’d told Lirri. He’d meant it, this time, too. He truly felt as if he’d done enough, now, and he could retire, satisfied. Just one more, he’d said. He felt a sudden pang of regret – then a sharp pain in the back, then numbness. Then nothing.

Colonel Lornok Craghand fell, his corpse pitching forward, trapping his blade beneath as his heart’s blood poured out upon it. The foe, having finally encircled his formation, tore the remaining men of his detachment apart in short order. Neither their bodies, nor any equipment, was ever recovered.


It has been over a century since Lornok Craghand lived. His children yet live, the wizened elders of their house.

The rumours of the magical blade Orenmir seem entirely detached from the Craghand name. Stories tell of the blade appearing from time to time, in the hand of some champion or another, of its shining light, sharp edge, and granted prowess. Some say it grants the blessings of Valkauna – the dwarven deity of oaths, balance, life, and death. So far, it has never stayed in one hand for long, however, and has spent much of the intervening years lost, and in slumber.

The Orenmir

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