Hierloom

The group stood in the library; it was haunted by foul spirits who were taking the appearance of everyday objects. When an unsuspecting victim would touch or simply get close to the insidious ghost it would possess them and cause them to do unspeakable things, or so the librarian had said. The city guards were exhausted, having searched the library day and night for the past week to no avail and yet another patron of the establishment had been possessed the night before. The call was sent out for some brave members of the local adventuring guild and six courageous or foolish novices answered the plea.

Many of those that witnessed their entrance into the building wondered at the group’s ability to survive such an obviously perilous encounter. Yet, it appeared the band was up for the challenge as they were assaulted again and again and, using their magic and enchanted weapons, they dispatched phantom after phantom. Although, there seemed to be no end to the ambushes as the group’s progress began to slow and more and more of the wounds and fatigue could not be ignored. They called for a quick break as they arrived at one of the reserved reading areas towards the middle of the west side of the library having not yet worked up the resolve to venture to the opposite side of the building.

The break was necessary, but it could not be for long as the band could be assaulted at any moment from the specters. As the party prepared to move towards the east side of the library, they realized that one of their members had opted not to join them. “Are you coming?” They peered back to the plush armchair where their ally sat.

“I am done,” was the adamant response. “I am all out of spells, so I am not going to be useful anymore anyway.”

“You don’t have a weapon?” A more lithe member of the group asked, having a talent for placing his shots with his short bow rather than charging into the thick of it. “I mean, I don’t like to get in the middle of a brawl either, but I still have my qatar.”

“Well, I don’t have a weapon,” the other sighed heavily, obviously finding their chair very comfortable.

By now the group had joined back with their tired ally as they sat, stifling a yawn. The party member who had been speaking with them before looked over to their friend, “what’s that?” They pointed to the woven guard that wrapped around a hilt, whose polished brass pommel glimmered against the fine wire grip.

The other members looked to the hip of their sitting ally. “It looks like a rapier,” one of them announced.”

“Well, it isn’t,” their lounging friend said emphatically. “It is an heirloom.”

“But it looks like a sword,” the brute of the party wisely observed. “A sword is a weapon, so you have a weapon.” There was little arguing with the muscle, especially when he simply hoisted and carried the reluctant spell caster to the next fight, forcing them to use a family treasure to try to poke the ghostly foes. A talent this particular member seemed to lack, and they quickly found themselves comfortably back in the chair.