the elven sword
Meldibar notices that you have picked up the sword. "Ahh,"
he says, "so you have found it. It glows for you, I see. That
sword will only glow for one who is destined to be a true adventurer.
It was used once before in a land called... Zork, was it? Yes, Zork,
of the many planes of Infocom. It glows brightly when danger is near.
Keep it, elfling; I cannot use it, and it may guard your life
someday." He gives a chuckle. "Besides, the Stones of
Faramil are worth more to me than any sword. Take the mail as well; it
is mithril, and will protect you from almost anything."
You put on the chain mail, and slide the sword into an imaginary
scabbard. A real one forms, attached to the belt of the tunic Meldibar
has loaned you.
"H... How did you do that?" Meldibar asks.
"I... I don't know," you say, equally awed. "I just
suddenly... knew... how to do that...."
"That is not a power of the sword," Meldibar says. "It
must be a power of your own. Do you recall anything from your past
about it?"
You concentrate. "No," you say, "it's a complete
blank."
"Perhaps if you tried it again...," he suggests.
You nod your assent, and concentrate on a paper and pen forming in the
air in front of you. You open your eyes. The pen and paper stubbornly
refuse to materialize.
"I can't," you say.
"Ah, well, perhaps you shall remember...."
Entranced by the elven sword, you pick it up. The blade glows with a
soft magical light as you hold it. It is lightweight; the hilt fits
your hand as though the sword were made for you. Along the blade, you
recognize the runes of the ancient High Elven speech; they are in a
mode unfamiliar to you, however, and you cannot decipher them.
