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Zhydo’rah
Laughter sounds in the heavy air around the Fallen, a harsh sound of spiteful glee. “A sword of my very own if I but cow it into submission for a time?” The blade itself screams in protest at the idea only to be silenced with a sneering rebuke. “You have no say in these matters, you who are nothing but a toy in the hands of your betters. Your precious Helm has no power here and even less respect in a game which treats the Forgotten Realms and its legion of pretend divinities with such indifference.” The bitter and mocking notes of her laughter overwhelm the voice of the sword. She then addresses this Fallen One who has made her so unusual an offer. “Tell me, O knight, is it merely an obedient blade you desire, or a weapon to be used with impunity? If it be the latter, then place both of your blades before you on these stones, the blade of bleeding over top of the blade of goodness.”
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