Despite his slightly clouded eyes, Lord Urdurel notices Fortu glancing at the blue hilted, cold-iron Longsword sitting flat in the, perfectly carved out recess in the centre of the square tabletop. A table, small enough, to enable Lord Urdurel to reach it’s grip from any side.
“Yes, the table acts as an oversized scabbard of sorts, I’m too old to lug a weapon around anymore. Do you like the sword nesting within it? Dragon Fang I call it; I just recently had it commissioned and although not a match for the one you now possess, it’s still a powerful weapon and there’s a rich kind of poetry attached to it.”
Leaning in, Rifkin moves to stroke the shimmering blade, but then draws his slender, mandolin playing fingers away before reaching it.
“I felt sparks!”
The old man laughs, revealing a greying, but surprisingly still full set of teeth.
“About a year ago, I was informed that some of the great and terrible dragon; Theranthor’s teeth had been recovered by a group of adventurers. They’d apparently stolen them from the Orcish; Broken Lancer’s tribe, after her massive skull had been destroyed. I managed to purchase several of them and had them forged into this enchanted, cold-iron sword. I found it ironic that my last days, might be spent standing against my second wife’s true Master and I wanted to wield a weapon crafted from the last creature to defeat him.”
The Demi-Elven Bard’s semi-almond-shaped eyes widen.
“That truly would be poetic justice, but surely, a man of your advanced years, doesn’t expect to actually join the fray?!”
With some effort, Lord Urdurel pulls himself up and out of his heavy, throne-like chair.
“I’m nearly a hundred years old. I sleep more than wake and my memory is starting to fade but I’ll be damned if I send another soldier to his death without standing, and risking my all, beside them.”
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