Lightning
By the strength of the smith, had the blade been forged!
Many weeks' work had the steel-smith put into this sword, folding the metal over and over, until it had the might of a score of its brother-swords. The tension of ten crossbows made it hum even in stillness. It gleamed slick upon the anvil. Its razor edge would need no sharpening.
By the skill of the jeweller, had the hilt been wrought!
A moon's cycle, from crescent to crescent, had the creation of the hilt taken. Perfectly counterbalancing the blade, it had the ability to resist any weight forced down upon it. Slender handle to suit every hand, it was wrapped in tender leather straps. Only the hide of the revered lioness was sufficient.
By the power of the sorcerer, had the crystal been hewn!
From Sun's rise to Sun's set, had the flawless quartz been a power-sink for the Gift. To those with the vision, it blazed with magic. A bright sun to burn and blind the eyes of the enemy. A supercharged light to sunder spells. A great energy, with a great protection.
By the wisdom of the Chieftains, would the sword be wielded!
There was a catch to owning such a masterpiece. Its creators, the race that would be one day named the Old Ones; feared death. War and the destruction of other beings were not undertaken lightly. A terrible hex was placed into the weapon:
The hero that dared use the blade must first know death. Only by meeting and understanding death would they have the privilege of carrying it. A dark storm would be summoned each time a challenger stepped forth. Night would be visited upon that person, and only the brave whom could accept their own demise would have the mastery of the sword.
Then could it be unleashed upon the enemy!
The Old Ones, who aged albeit kicking and screaming, would use their bright shining blades to conquer the foul tribes of the Ysandir – ever young, beautiful, craven cannibals. They did not respect death nor have gratitude for their immortality, and feasted upon living flesh – upon life itself!
The Ysandir were the nemeses of the Old Ones.
No matter that they would outlive every last One on the planet. No matter.
For a sword of their creation would be the one to cut down the final Ysandir lords; in the hands of a Legend touched by the Mother Goddess.
By the Chosen of the Goddess, would their legacy defeat the Ysandir!