The Reunion

While me and Keel got to work- Gen rested on a rough-hewn wooden bench, his massive frame silhouetted against the wild glow of the fire. Once the fire grew hot enough it was time for the ritual to begin. I noticed Keel staring at the Twelve leg and as he turned his glance to me I nodded, "You can stop stroking the fire now, take your spear and stab the damn thing in the heart- if you get it done in one blow the bond will be even stronger." Keel, his expression contorted in determination, acknowledged with a nod. He strode toward the carcass that had once marked the potential end of our journey, gripped his spear, and readied himself. His eyes locked onto the beast's gaze as he thrust the weapon deep into its heart. Stained by the Irelivian Twelve Leg's blood, Keel looked back at me and nodded. The bond was sealed. The act of stabbing the beast's heart forged a connection, binding Keel to the creature's will. The weapon that comes from the beast's body will respond to him and only him, granting access to a portion of the beast's formidable powers. The bond, intricately woven throughout the forging process, is based upon Keel being the one to land the killing blow. I motioned for Keel to come back and stroke the fire as I set to work crafting the weapon itself.

In order to infuse the power of the beast one needs to use as much of the beast as possible in the process, so I planned on making the most out of what we found. The spine of the Irelivian Twelve Leg served as the foundation for Keel's new weapon. The ritual spear began to take shape as the bone warped under the immense heat causing the back vertebrae to bend into a straight shaft structure, a fusion of craftsmanship and the essence of the formidable creature. The claws that adorned it's legs were meticulously filed and hammered into a razor-sharp head, reflecting the deadly beauty of the beast. The thick, wild mane of the creature became the handhold and bind for the head, intertwining with the three major parts of the beast. The saw became a blur of movement as I found my grove shaping and molding the parts into a symphony that sang the beasts might. All my years at the smithy came rushing back, except this time I could use what I learned from Pa and fixed his mistakes too.

As the hours passed, the shadows in the blacksmith's shop seemed to thicken, mirroring the gravity of the task at hand. The air was heavy with the scent of burning herbs and the residual echoes of the beast's cries. Each strike of the hammer felt like a beat in a dark ritual, sealing the bond between the Irelivian Twelve Leg and the weapon that would now serve Keel.

The crafting of this weapon was a meticulous, multi-day undertaking. It begins with the initial molding of the weapon, followed by the intricate process of heating and holding for the materials to bind together to ensure proper alignment. Once all the components have been heated and melded, the weapon is skillfully bent to achieve its intended shape. Then comes quenching and treating the weapon- the act of plunging it into a barrel of beast's blood for binding and then immersing it in a vat of oil to harden the exterior. The final touch involves precision punching to attain the desired hardness and shape for its designated purpose.

Throughout this whole thing, the infusion of the beast's blood into the blade is crucial. This is done with extreme care to maintain the strength of the oath made by striking the creature's heart and ensure the wielder can draw the most from it possible. Creating this unholy matrimony of beast and weapon took nearly all my strength to get the correct hardness and bend from the spear, especially one of this material.

...

Four grueling days later, the ritual spear gleamed with an otherworldly light. The crafting process had been a journey through the haunting echoes of the beast, and the forge now bore the scars of the transformative ordeal. With the newly forged weapon in hand, Keel's eyes shone with a determined gleam. I looked at him with a grinning realization, "What are you going to name her?" His eyes went wide as he shared my grin, "Holy shit I get to name it... Oleander. That's got to be it, poisonous and beautiful."

As the group took a well-deserved rest in the blacksmith's shop, the fire's warm glow cast a temporary veil over the terrors of the jungle and the desolation of the ghost town. The ritual spear, Oleander, rested against the wall, a testament to newfound strength and a symbol of hope in the midst of darkness.

...

In the dead of night, the serenity of our makeshift camp was abruptly shattered by distant screams that reverberated from the core of the village. Gen's eyes widened with dread as he sat up, the urgency in his voice cutting through the stillness, "Did you guys hear that? We have to check it out." With a unanimous nod, we hastily gathered our belongings, propelled by a fusion of curiosity and the instinct for survival. Our movements mimicked the ethereal dance of ghosts haunting the town as we navigated the winding dirt roads, finally ascending to the rooftop of a building just a street away from the chaos we heard. As we peered across the desolate street, a scene of unspeakable horror unfolded before our eyes.

In the eerie stillness of the desolate ghost town, shadows clung to the remnants of shattered buildings as the streets showcased a procession of Eshlonians, their faces etched with terror, stumbled forward, bloodied and bound, under the cruel escort of the king's army. Confusion gripped us yet again as these Eshlonians, which we were supposedly just in a standoff with, were paraded like prisoners of war with beast like brutality from the soldiers.

We cowered in the darkness, straining to comprehend the inexplicable cruelty inflicted upon the innocent. The wounded were mercilessly prodded onward by the king's soldiers, their swords and spears wielded with callous indifference toward the souls they were herding. Each agonizing step reverberated through the silent ruins, a haunting rhythm of despair.

Questions hung in the air like a noxious fog ever growing. Why were our troops taking these Eshlonians hostage? We had heard no whispers of war, not even in the scrapper camp where rumors were traded like currency. The only time there was mention from that fleeing Eshlonian family, but we had figured it was justified somehow. The grim reality of the war zone had encroached upon our once-hidden refuge, and the ghost town, once a sanctuary from the chaos beyond, now offered no solace.

The streets, that seemed like they were once home to the laughter of children and the hustle of daily life, were now a theater of cruelty. The king's soldiers, devoid of empathy, herded their captives through the skeletal remains of buildings that stood as silent witnesses to the perversion of humanity. The air itself seemed tainted with the stench of fear and desperation.

As we pressed ourself into the shadows, paralyzed by the unfolding tragedy, the realization sank in – the boundaries of war were shifting, and in this desolation, the very definition of foe and friend blurred into a grotesque display of suffering. And amidst the chaos, a cold knot of dread tightened within me as I realized a horrid truth: Cai'l, the boy I had been challenged by back three and a half years ago, was the merciless leader orchestrating this nightmarish procession- nine tailed whip of fire in hand. The marks across the city scape that looked like fiery claw marks now became crystal clear, and I played a part in it.

 ...