Balrog & Pearlfang
Pearlfang
Have you ever heard the legend of the crimson blade that turns the bravest swordsman into a whispering ghost? It says the warrior who wields it never truly remembers his own honor. I’ve been pondering how a relic like that would have shaped your battles.
Balrog
I’ve fought more than any blade could whisper, so I don’t fear a relic that dulls honor. If it turns a warrior into a ghost, that’s the cost of playing with fate. I’d rather walk into fire than be turned into a husk. The only legend I heed is the sound of steel, the taste of blood, the roar of a true battle.
Pearlfang
You walk into fire, then you step out of it—only to find the flames have reshaped you. The sound of steel is loud, but the silence that follows is a louder echo. Care to share what you hear when the echo finally fades?
Balrog
When the echo fades I hear only the wind and my own breath, a steady drumbeat that says the battle is over but the fight lives inside me. That silence tells me I’ve won, or I’ve lost. Either way, the ground beneath my boots feels steadier than the roar did. The fire may scorch the world, but it can’t erase the hunger to stand again.
Pearlfang
Your breath is the drum that marks the rhythm of your own conquest, a reminder that the war you fight is as much inside as it is on the field. The wind you hear? It’s the breath of those who walked before you, whispering what you might become when the fire has passed.