I have been researching my crystal blade, which I have named Symphony. I now firmly believe the weapon to be an artifact—or, more accurately, a fragment of one. I suspect Symphony is but a shard of its former glory. The proof is currently sheathed on my back.
When I acquired it, the blade was much smaller—dagger-sized—and in jest I named it Note. More accurately, Chord’s Note. I did enjoy the play on words.
In the years since, it has grown as I have, in scope and in power. It grew, evolving into Chord. I decided to name it Symphony after its most recent growth, though I could just as easily have named it Melody. I chose Symphony because I was naming it for the future.
At any rate, in researching the history of the blade, I found myself distracted by a more troubling discovery:
There are no known texts concerning Symphony at all.
Granted, much to the chagrin of the librarians of Lorr, I spent an indecent amount of time in the normal archives. By “normal,” I of course mean the ones they don’t want the average person perusing—hidden behind an illusory wall, a locked and trapped stone door, and a wall of force. I don’t think they believed I was looking for the bathroom.
Still, what I discovered was fascinating enough to offer me new stories to explore—and perhaps even point me toward answers of my own.
ARTIFACTS NO MORE
Ripping off a bandage is easiest—unless you happen to be covered in fur. I still do not understand the fashion trends of the ladies of the pleasure district. They may be tougher than dwarves. Come to think of it, some of them are dwarves.
There are almost no artifacts currently being created. The knowledge of their creation was stripped away by Kor’Tunni, Goddess of Magic, the last time a human attempted to tap directly into the Aether itself, if you believe the rumors.
Nearly every race, barring humans, has a saying that roughly translates to: “If you’re going for the impossible, think like a human.”
It is not entirely unwarranted.
In their relatively short existence, humans have nearly undone time once (that we know of), nearly unraveled reality once, and have come dangerously close to cracking or tearing the world apart more times than the combined mistakes of elves, dwarves, dragons, and titans.
That’s impressive.
The censuring of artifacts did not affect those already in existence. It merely ensured that, during the censure, they could no longer be duplicated. Which, in and of itself, is probably a good thing.
Artifacts are not normal magical items. These are god-tier tools in physical form. Some were actually made by gods and titans.
Gia—the adorable sphinx who guards the Secrets of the Desert floor—knows something about those. When I asked if she knew where I could examine one, the sound that escaped her jaws made me think she was choking on a hairball. Since then, she has acted as though I never asked the question at all and insists she knows nothing about the subject. Instead, she seems to focus on removing debris from her front paw.
Frisky feline. I wonder what her favorite fish is.
At any rate, no one is quite sure when the knowledge of artifact creation returned. I suspect it was because it did not arrive with pomp or proclamation.
I say this with confidence because I know of at least two artifacts that have been created within the last decade or so. I say two as though it’s no great thing—but one is a pair, and the other is a set of eight. Incomplete, missing two.
So yes, artifacts can be created anew.
The likelihood of that happening, however, is slim to none. It takes extraordinary will and focus for mortals to craft them. Even the one I know of—and I can’t name him, because I am only allowed to do so two more times, and writing counts—required the aid of his inner circle.
The primary reason artifacts will not be created again is simple.
Fear.
IVY & STONE
The greatest sets of artifacts were born of elven and dwarven cooperation.
In the decades following the Three-Way War, elves and dwarves managed to set aside centuries of blood and bitterness. In mutual respect—and shared sorrow—they created truly magnificent works.
The Ma’dara Blades of the elves, and the Vok Taj—also known as the Spirit Hammers—are artifacts we will never see the likes of again.
I am not suggesting these were the only races to ever create artifacts. I am saying they were the two that did so with astonishing frequency.
I will also reiterate this point: mortals require assistance to craft such things. Usually other spellcasters. Sometimes other sources of magic entirely. Only gods may create artifacts of this magnitude alone.
I would dearly love to peek into some drawers in Kor’Tunni’s laboratory. I also prefer my fur on the outside of my skin. So dreaming will have to suffice.
The Ma’dara Blades in existence are, tragically, all that will likely ever be made.
The good news is that there are quite a few of them—each branch of the elven tree forged a dozen or so for their heroes. The bad news is that with the decline of the elven kingdoms, many of these blades are now lost.
The worst news is that most Ma’dara Blades will only accept an elven wielder—and some are very specific in their requirements. Those who fail to meet them are often killed outright. As a result, the blades tend to remain lost.
It is believed the power within the blades could only be contained by runes that only dwarves could carve. No one is quite certain why the blades became aware—ranging from semi-sentient to critically vocal—nor how they reveal their runes only when they believe a wielder has earned them.
It is commonly accepted that four runes were originally carved into each blade. And yet, all known Ma’dara Blades possess more than four active runes.
Such is the nature of artifacts.
Powerful enough to slay dragons.
Stubborn enough to lie abandoned in the muck, zapping every goblin or gnoll foolish enough to pick them up.
Likewise, the Vok Taj number only a dozen. They were created for the thane of each of the ten dwarven kingdoms.
Dwarves could painstakingly forge the vessels—generally warhammers, though two mauls are known—each assembled from a hundred individually forged and runed pieces. But to complete them, they required elven aid to beseech the spirits of the wind.
Legend claims the spirits did not merely bless the weapons, but became one with them.
Their signature ability has been duplicated, to a lesser extent. The powers granted by the spirits, however, have not.
The Vok Taj are not as selective as the Ma’dara Blades. Yet in the hands of a dwarf, they unlock their full power—and grant the wielder legitimate claim to the throne of the citadel to which the hammer is attuned.
Every dwarf dreams of finding a Vok Taj and sitting upon a long-unclaimed throne.
It is fortunate the dwarves only recognize dwarven wielders as thane. Can you imagine me—assuming Symphony would even allow another magic item near me; it is eerily possessive—hosting dwarven feasts for the ages?
Ah well. I like the sun too much.
The simple and uncomfortable truth—one no race wishes to admit—is that the reason no new artifacts are being created is trust. Or rather, the absence of it.
Both elven and dwarven empires are in decline. Both are too stubborn to fade quietly into the Aether. So why, truly, would one request aid from the other? Such a request would expose weakness—and neither side wishes to be seen as weak.
After all, cooperation might grant the other an artifact of staggering power. One that could ensure survival… and doom the rest.
Neither can be certain. And neither is willing to test that uncertainty.
It makes my head hurt.
Two cultures once created miracles through cooperation—and could do so again. Yet the fear only preserves the ruins of what once was. What remains are magical swords and dwarven hammers that return when thrown: pale reflections of what came before.
But what do I know?
I may have had too many barrels of feywine tonight.
Always take time to enjoy the music”
– Chord, the Ivory Bard
A Darkness Rising 