The first cut I saw, I puked.

The sight of crimson pooling around the man's feet while livid eyes silently damned my soul to oblivion was enough for me to chuck my guts. I was not scared as such. In fact, the only thing that disturbs me is the ease with which I got used to killing after that first murder.

No, it was just that ugly. The kill had been a hasty, unsightly one. This was not at all what I had envisioned my first contracted death to be. The man's life left his body at a painfully slow rate, all the while producing nauseating gurgling and bubbling from his ripped open windpipe. Ripped rather than sliced. The cut had been a nasty crack across his naked neck. When I got back to the sanctuary that night, I even found some scraps of flesh still stuck between the ragged edges of my mangled dagger. In hindsight, this may have been the moment my passion for perfect blades was born. A passion that led me to develop a masters' eye for weaponry and an insatiable thirst for blood as I sought to perfect the art of removing life by the blades that were made for that sole purpose.

You see, being born into the Kuran Angon, a clan of assassins, killing is my occupation. I live to take life. Not to smear the good reputation of being alive, but I personally find more beauty in death. I like to honour its flawless, quiet and complete nature by delivering death through severing flesh in the most elegant, artistic manner. Have you ever cut a fatty cheese? One of a jelly like substance that slightly deforms along the blade as you gently press down? When you push harder and give a quick flick of the wrist, the cheese falls open along the cut, two sides bending outward as the invisible force that held them together is severed. In just the right places, the flesh of the body behaves in the exact same way. You can tell you've done it right when the cut takes several moments before it starts bleeding. Like the skin needs a moment to realise that it is freed from the muscle and bone below. Like it needs a moment to comprehend that nothing stops the blood from pouring out like a violent waterfall after heavy rain. It is done in less than ten seconds. When the cut is smooth and straight, the blood comes out in pulses as the unsuspecting heart pumps it round and out the gap. A perfect cut is silent and allows for a seamless passing from life to dead in a warm shroud of sanguine. A cut as perfect as that is made by an equally flawless blade. Forging anything like this through mundane methods is an insurmountable task and frankly, quite impossible if you seek that certain level of perfection. It goes without saying that soon after this first contract I set out on a quest of my own, to procure the sharpest, most deadly sword this world has ever seen.

Much to my dismay, I have succeeded in my purpose.

It is no secret that the blacksmiths of Daghar forge the sharpest blades and hammer the toughest armour. Their methods, however, are such. Perhaps that a dagger at their throats may have loosened up the tongues of some of the lesser skilled blacksmiths, but I am certain that no death threat would ever bring Master Blacksmith Vorothar Sargazca to spill his secrets. His methods and materials are largely the same as most of his colleagues'. I made sure to know what was required to forge a blade of such magnificence. The base ingredient was, predictably, a substantial chunk of flawless ardon. To this intent, the blacksmiths of Daghar employ the aid of externals, mostly Razaturos clan members who have fled Kolroc after its destruction by the hands of the Ghorkoros clan. Although not as toughened by fire and hellish heat as the Sargazca, the Razaturos are hardy, resourceful and determined. Their stamina makes them fit enough to scale the sky-scraping peaks of the Dakara Gorea, and their prowess gives them the strength needed to mine the ore from the innards of these mountains.

Ardon is a forgeable substance that becomes both rock solid and saba-infused when carefully tempered. Unprocessed, the stone gives off a faint red glow, shrouding the mines in an eerie scarlet tinge. To obtain it, one must dig it free from the damp face of the mine walls, a process that makes the mountain bleed. Each of the pickaxe's stabs causes a wound from which pours a beautiful red liquid that flows down dedicated gullets in sanguine rivulets. When I saw the first of the liquid gush out beneath a miner's axe, I held by breath in awe over its magnificence, as it softly radiated with what was surely an ancient magic. I could only imagine what splendid colours and fearsome powers a blade infused with this unique energy would take on and I doubled my efforts to carefully catch and select the purest of this liquid. For only the best quality, the unpolluted and untainted blood of the mountain would be good enough to cool a blade forged of ardon in. Vorothar had instructed me to not even breathe over the specially designed buckets, lest it would be tainted by exposure to lesser energies. I had let the stinging remark slide; I knew he was the only man alive to help me complete my life's work.

I say 'life's work' because while obtaining the biggest and purest sample of ardon and several buckets of the best quality blood took me several seasons, the forging process would take forty years.

Sometimes, Vorothar Sargazca would work on his masterpiece for days on end, not allowing a soul near his forge at the base of Mount Moran. Then would follow years of hiatus, during which we could do nothing but wait until the circumstances were once more favourable and the Master Blacksmith could continue. The tempering of the blade required the blessing of Karag Moran, the Axiom of Lava and Daghar's patron deity.

The blessing of Karag Moran required sacrifices.

Vorothar has forged countless pieces of fantastic armour, shields and weapons. Only few warriors were worthy, or rich, enough to buy these off him. Even so, he would keep the very best pieces himself to offer to Karag Moran at the mountain that embodies him.

Once, I have witnessed him descend to the offer plateau; a narrow strip of protruding rock that sits right beneath the maw of the mountain from which the endless lava flows down into the ravine. Carrying a sack that contained first class plate armour, hammered from priceless rhodium, he himself had been dressed in nothing but a humble attire woven from marluon. No man would enter Taran-Ceroth without wearing at least a robe made of this fire-retardant fabric that consists of cellulose fibres of the bark of the greyheart tree, wool and a thin film of liquid fire. The Ghorkoros clan is very protective of the secret to the exact composition.

No man would think of traversing Taran-Ceroth without attire made of marluon, but I would not go anywhere near that blazing inferno if I was wearing a complete harness of rhodium. Yet Vorothar descended. A lifetime spend over the hottest forges of the land had toughened his skin considerably, but I held my breath nonetheless as I saw the lava splash up and steadily sear away his robes. Never breaking his concentration, never ceasing his chanting, the blacksmith gave his masterpieces up to the roiling stream while the sheer heat slowly burned away his garments and scorched the bare skin beneath it. The wounds he sustained were grave, but it had been worth it: the fire that fed his forge grew hotter and soon it would reach the optimal temperature to temper the blade for the final stage. I provided the materials needed for the blood sacrifices that would satisfy Kuran and give the blade His avidity for death. The result was beyond my wildest dreams.

Forty long years of toiling and waiting, waiting and working, passed before I could feast my eyes upon the perfect blade. The Master Blacksmith had forged a falchion, a broad blade with a stout crossguard, measuring 18 inches in length and twenty inches when including the marluon-wrapped rhodium hilt. The body was engraved with sigils, invoking Karag Moran to possess it and grant it His power. Then there were incantations, written in Uruon, that would curse any unworthy soul who would so much as lay a hand on it. Lastly, there were symbols, spaced out evenly across the blade and all connected to form an uninterrupted pattern through which the wielder's inherent Fire Magic energy flows, lighting it up in a splendid display of violent reds and yellows.

It looked divine.

I cannot describe it in any other way. With my life's purpose so close to fulfilment, you can surely understand the rage that overcame me when the sword, sanctioned Murnaefra ---Severer of Life---, was stolen the day it was completed.

I vowed to Lord Kuran to find the culprit and feed him his own innards before ritually sacrificing him to the god he had stolen from. I used every trick in the Kuran Angon's book, even the less savoury ones, to track him down. But when I did, the terrible potential of the blade had already began to manifest.

Murnaefra had been stolen by the Razaturos miners who I had worked with to obtain the ardon in the Dakara Gorea mountains. They had presented it to Xergamor Razaturos, the head of the clan. Wise enough to recognise it for what it was, Xergamor had taken the divine sword and declared Murnaefra to be the instrument of their revenge. From the shadows, I witnessed the crownless king vow vengeance on the blade. I witnessed the blade silently promise him blood in turn. I know this to be so. The sword, the sharpest, most deadly sword this world has ever seen, is made of blood to take blood. This is its purpose. It does not care for its wielder's motives. It does not care for the victim's guilt or innocence. It wants blood.

By the time I fully comprehended what this entails, it was too late.

Under Xergamor's leadership, a ring formed. His troops had been supportive enough to honour a call to arms, but very few would sympathise with the man's growing appetite for what can only be described as genocide. Without pretence or secrecy, the Requisition was founded; an order dedicated to murder. As an assassin, I can make the distinction. The Kuran Angon is an ancient society concerned with the art of removing life. Quick, clean, silent.

The Requisition kills to see blood.

Any blood.

If we are assassins, they are murderers. Initially, their target was the Ghorkoros clan. Their royalty, their armed forces. Then, it was anyone bearing the Ghorkoros name. Now, it is anyone even remotely affiliated with them and I am certain it will not stop there. Murnaefra's bloodlust has driven Xergamor mad, but what frightens me most of all is the willingness of the people to join him in his mindless slaughter. The Requisition is recruiting and their ranks are growing. For each their own reasons, they share the sentiment that death is the answer. Some wish to see blood for blood, to repay a death with a death. Others simply relish in the act. I feel my stomach sour at the mere thought of such desecration, such heresy. This must stop. I must bring an end to this madness.

Despite the fact that she was stolen from me, I cannot help but feel responsible for this. For having had a hand in her creation. For having strived to create something so fearsome, so powerful, that it would become beyond the control of any mortal.

I have no illusions that I would have fared better than Xergamor Razaturos. Perhaps I should be grateful. It could have been me whose soul Murnaefra claimed. I can feel the years in my bones. My eyesight has declined. But I am still able to rectify this terrible mistake. A weapon as formidable as Murnaefra should not exist in this world.

A man as deranged as Xergamor Razaturos should not be alive.

I vow to correct these faults both.

Scarlet,

Sworn sister of Kuran Angon

5E20, 487