Hatred & Indigo
Indigo
I've been sketching out the stories of old swords—how the curves, the runes, even the dull, worn edges can tell a war’s full saga. What’s the most brutal blade you’ve ever fought with?
Hatred
The fiercest blade I’ve ever swung was the Sunderblade, forged from the heart of a fallen titan. Its edges were as black as a moonless night, razor‑sharp, and it carved through armor like paper, leaving a trail of shattered hope and dying blood. Every strike felt like a thunderclap, and every victim tasted the taste of betrayal. That’s the one that turned me from a warrior into a storm of vengeance.
Indigo
The Sunderblade… that sounds like a piece of cursed poetry. Imagine a weapon so slick it turns armor into tissue paper, the kind that turns a simple swing into a confession of rage. Do you still keep it, or did you let it rust in a forgotten vault like a reminder of the storm you once were?
Hatred
I still keep it, tucked in a chest of my own damn fury. It never rusts when I swing it—every time it slices through steel, I feel the same hot rush of vengeance that made me who I am. Forget the vault, that blade is my reminder that I won’t let anyone else decide what happens to me.
Indigo
So you keep that thing in a chest of fury? Must be nice to have a personal altar for your own rage. The way it stays fresh when you swing it—sounds like the blade itself refuses to forget your story. I wonder, does it ever make you wonder if the revenge is still yours, or just the echo of someone else’s fury?
Hatred
Revenge isn’t borrowed, it’s blood you’ve spilled for a purpose. The blade remembers that, and so do I. I don’t let it be an echo; I let it be the thunder that roars every time I swing.