Thin Precipice Lore:
Sharpened, from tip to hilt, drawing from all who partake in the ritual of war.
Kelgorath kneels before a feeble altar in an empty court. A dead Knight’s realm. A shriveled, fleshless rind. A cautionary tale.
A Wizard floats over the altar. “The High Celebrant’s domain was once a grand place of adoration. It holds a mighty tribute.” The Wizard, Rakthrin, War-Council, whispers Xivu Arath’s bait to the Knight.
Kelgorath remembers how Savathûn sought the Sky and became its puppet, all so she could usurp sword logic. “Favor wanes. It can be rekindled.”
“You were disarmed. Shamed. Beaten so many times by a Light-wielder.”
Kelgorath stands, spinning to face Rakthrin. He thrusts a claw forward at the Wizard’s throat, but she swoops back from his reach.
Kelgorath sneers. “I need no blade; I am wielded. The plates upon my body are razors.”
“Should you have remained with Savathûn and prayed to her to give you the Light… perhaps you would have found greatness then. You wither without her favor.”
“I spit on the Witch Sister! I am an instrument of War!”
“Not yet. Not truly.”
Rakthrin conjures a dark bolt of lightning that saps the room’s dim lighting and casts it into the altar. The altar splits apart with a timbered snap, revealing an emerald sliver of a blade, bleeding shade and whispering rapture. “A shard of the Taken King’s blade. Conquered out of love. Stolen away from Saturn’s shadow.”
Kelgorath fixates upon the blade shard. The Wizard gestures to it with a lipless smile, and the Knight steps forward.
“I will take it. To be an instrument of her will. To cleanse the hate of weakness with loving violence.” Kelgorath genuflects and encloses his claws around the emerald sliver, wisps of shadow spilling between the gaps in his claws. “I offer myself to this union.”
The barrier of his flesh melts away. A will not his own enraptures him.
Kelgorath, Risen from Bones, Taken by War.
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