I have been stuck with it since my father died in battle; its power grows with everything it slays, the black sword known as Cillatem the soul eater. The sword eats the souls of what it slays and increases in power, but then if the dark matter within the blade grows too great...my soul will be next to be swallowed.
My father Gigas Hershel was the first to heft the black blade, to this day I still don't know where it came from... or if the black god himself forged the blade. He went to battle with the black, long sword. The last I heard from a fellow warrior at his side was: ‘The blade erupted into black mist; Gigas was fighting like a mad man, till the black mist engulfed him. There was only the glowing sword where he once stood.'
In an undersized room no greater then a closet stood Reid Hershel, the only son to Gigas. He stood at the door of the small room staring emotionless at the black scabbard mounted on the top shelf, which was all the memory he has left of Gigas, the sword that ate his soul.
It has been one Dalephian year (ten human years) since he last grasped the Cillatem; the memory still didn't flee from his mind, his strength increased greatly as he butchered, so did his urge to kill, he couldn't stop himself from the slaughtering of innocence. The one who unchained him from the curse was Chip Triumph, the bearer of the holy sword Fed Drappel and king to one of the largest territories. Ever since that day he never laid a finger on the sword.
Reid shook his head slightly the images of him performing the slaughter became oblivion. He gazed up at the sheathed Cillatem; the images appeared once again, he raced his hands and placed his palms over his eyes, his fingers tangled in his shaggy garnet hair. He tried again and again to get rid of the butchering but still the images stayed.
He pried his hands from his face; his garnet eyes staring at the Cillatem, his eyes trying to pierce a hole through the black sheath. "I will not let you have me like you had my father!" he cursed at the blade.
The purple hilt of Cillatem suddenly gave a small glow before the black pommel, slowly the purple mist increased in size, the mist started to spiral around the hilt.
Reid could feel the air get cold and damp as if thick fogs sluggishly move about his body and through his lungs, goose flesh erupted on his body from the abrupt change.
Reid grasped at his hair; he could feel a heavy pressure in his body, the source of which could not be picked out. He started to feel light-headed, his heart started to accelerate greatly, his breathing began to fail.
"No!" he could feel his body fire up to a fever. "I will...not allow this...any...longer!" he raced to the sheathed Cillatem, seized it and ripped it from its mount. He dashed out of the small room, and then raced down the long white hall, he tried to turn left at the first turn, but his legs gave way, he fell hard against the concrete wall. The sword flew from his grasp. It landed a few paces away; the black blade slipped half way from the scabbard before it landed, the sword pulsed like a heart breathes new life.