Labyrinth's Gate

This is a placeholder page for content that PD are actively working on.

Description

The gate of the labyrinth is a euphemistic name for this savage weapon that exists solely to end the life of defeated opponents. Whether formed as a poll-axe, a massive hammer or a razor-sharp hafted blade, the weapon is most commonly used by skilled warriors who first send their enemy sprawling, then deliver an irresistible blow that cripples all but the most heavily armoured of foes. According to historical records, the Highborn cataphracts made great use of these weapons in their early wars against the orcs, riding them down on their mighty war steeds, then spearing them while they were on the ground. They are favoured by brutal warriors from the Marches to Wintermark for their ability to strike terror into opponents and dispatch powerful foes.

Some of these weapons bear the rune Yoorn, and in Wintermark they are sometimes called Reaper's Shears. Among the Navarr they are often decorated with intricate labyrinthine designs, and there is an unspoken taboo in some chapters against using them against human opponents. In Urizen some sentinels favour this weapon in the form of a razor-sharp yari, simple and unadorned, and say that it is unseemly that a weapon intended to deliver such devastating blows should appear beautiful.

Rules

• Form: Pole-arm.
• Effect: Once per day may spend a hero point point to call IMPALE against a prone opponent.
• Materials: Crafting a labyrinth's gate requires twenty ingots of tempest jade, eleven ingots of green iron, seven measures of dragonbone and four ingots of orichaclum. It takes one month to make one of these items.

The tall Brand spoke quietly.

"We are few. Our armies are not like those of the Marchers, or the Dawnish. We are like the Unconquered Highborn, I think. No battlefields unless we must, but the silent kill, the melt-and-fade. We are perhaps most like the Urizen, of all people. Few, so our power must be directed precisely and with most impact. They wield magic, intelligence, precise bladecraft. We do not. We wield fear like a sword. It must be thus. Our Stridings are small, and travel light. Our Steadings rarely fortified, save in secrecy.

See my war-marks? The painted face I wear? These are not my tattoos, because they are not me. I am not I when I wear them, I am a creature of carnage, a killer born. They make me Other.

That is what this blade-staff is. See it is marked as I am? With my skill, it is death, so I become Fear. In my hands, it is carnage, so it makes me Terror. Its effect is more than one corpse, it's effect is in the minds of others. It is not the short spear, nor the long pike. It is not to keep enemies from me, but to welcome them on. Into the ground's embrace."

She stepped to one side, reversed the blade, and slashed down, exhaling hard, snarling like a beast:

"Now you are on the floor."

She drew the staff up, high above her head. She drove the point down into the orc's belly and scooped up through the heart. The orc splutted, red foam at his mouth.

"Now, you are dead."

She retook her stance, the weapon's point down and to the right, and stared at the other two.

"Now, *you* run."

The orcs looked at her, turned and fled. There was a snapping noise, as if a taut cord had broken, and two screams, rapidly cut short.

"And now you die too..."