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From the shadows a dark figure steps, shrouded by a deep cloak. A hand reaches out and sweeps the hood from his face, revealing his rich features. Loose, curling black hair drifts about his brows in the breeze. His face shines in sharp profile, for his delicately chiseled mouth and nose catch and hold the shadows. His eyes gleam brightly as they gaze at you, subtly shifting in color, reflecting his thoughts in fine shades of gray and ebony black.
He reaches under his cloak and draws forth a long black sword. Its keen edge and lethal blade glimmer in the low slanting rays, reflecting the light in shades of flame from deep within its core. He moves it about, watching it dance and play in the sun, tracing lines and patterns in the air with its fiery luminescence.
At length he casts back his cloak and seats himself on a low, oblong stone, resting the blade on his knees. His fingers play on the profound basket hilt made of intertwined vipers coiling on each other in various signs and figures. The dusky red gem on the pommel radiates darkly the sun's rays it catches.
He looks up and gazes at all of you one by one, silent and pensive. His eyes shift and fade to a soft gray like a warm cloud over summer stars. A slow smile forms itself on his lips, and at last he begins to speak.
“Viiolos.”
His calm voice reaches out from his placid posture like the spreading of a wave to break against shores far away and distant. The simple Elvish word touches its meaning of greeting and blessing and good will into the minds of all who hear it.
“Tës. Éieiothar. Greetings. I am Kimun, of the line Xzantaria, which was once the royal dynasty of Tskarnor, and has descended unbroken from Eidhro the First, Lord of his house who dealt the final blow in the Seven Ages War. I have been trained as a warrior in the houses of many masters, in the arts and practices of diverse nations and creeds.
“I would not tell you this, and would, indeed, not be here at all, were it not that I had been sent with a message to all of you here.”
Kimun stands and casts aside his cloak, revealing a finely crafted suit of light cloth enclosing his body in such a way that he is completely free and mobile. In vital areas glints of polished metal shines. But about his waist is bound a wide belt on which is slung five long scabbards and two knives. Their hilts and sheathes are all completely diverse and unique one from the other.
He steps forward and thrusts his dark blade into the grass, and draws two others from the belt. One gleames with a pale luster, like a dying star, and its blade and hilts are fashioned to resemble evil birds of prey to the mind. The other seems by its side to be overwhelmingly plain, perfectly straight, and relatively unfascinating.
“This blade,” Kimun says, lifting the pale one, “is what is known as a Shivara, a Blessed-Blade. It was forged long ago by the dark forces of the Eingzhroi in the Seven Ages War. It was infused with several abilities, not the least of which, is this.”
He brings the blade up and then sharply strikes it through the other in his hand. Not a sound, not a stroke, not the whisper of metal on metal is heard. Both swords are intact. Kimun brings both up and moves them rapidly between each other several times.
“Armor is useless,” he continues as he thrusts them both into the ground, “against that blade.”
He draws out his last two swords, both as bright and golden as the previous were dark and melancholy. One is fashioned like a great winged dragon, the other like unto a crystal, but both had short cross hilts, and long, thick grips. Their blades were broad and long, and shined with a brilliance unmatched by any mirror not blessed.
“These also are Shivara, though they come from the other side of the war. This,” he lifts the dragon blade, “was my father's, and was received by him from his ancestors before him.”
“This, however, is much more special.” He thrusts the dragon blade into the soil with the others and lifts the other. “This, is much more than a Shivara. This is a living blade, a spirit manifested as a sword. This is a person, as alive as you or I. It can sense your intents before you act upon them, and thus thwart your attempts to strike me. It is called Ël-Ërai”
He thrusts it into the earth and steps back to the black blade and draws it from the ground.
“This is also a living blade. But this spirit is uncanny and untrustworthy at best. Some say it is utterly evil. It is called Kimensul.”
Kimun steps away from the other blades, bearing Kimensul in his hand, a violet light burning in his eyes and casting strange colors on his face. He whirls it in his hands in a swift motion and with seeming ease, he rises from the earth. He sends the blade out from him and begins to dance, the sword making streams of flame whorl around him in convoluted patterns as he moves viciously, powerfully, precisely in harmony with a music only he can hear.
With an abrupt motion the sword flies to his hand and he sets his feet on earth. The blade vanishes into an iron ring in the form of two black serpents holding a small red gem. With a gesture it appears as itself again in his hand, and he thrusts it home with the others.
“You see, I have abilities. I would not show you these things, except I have been sent.
“I am in my realm, in the realm of my home, my land, and I act according to the laws of that realm. Were I to go to your realms, few indeed of these things would be permitted. I could not use Kimensul to duel you, unless the laws of your land allowed it. If you came to me your abilities would have to fit within the boundaries set here.
“And so thus is our Vale of Communication. We are here to learn of each other and to have joy in each other's company. May we do so without banishing Ëtroth to the netherness from which it came. I, prophet of the One, set my vow to the seal that I shall do all within me to preserve it spotless.”
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Get back to work, slave lass!
