The Shark and the Dragon

"We are just about done. I'm carving some properly sticky runes on the sharp end; I'd like my dear dragon forge mistress companion to carve the foulest runes she's stomached into the other side of the blade. Flow your shadows into it as I flow mine. It shall symbolize the rebirth of this blade in a new age, for a new reaving."
(Maertock Reave)
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 Duniya observed as Maertock placed the gem within the handle of the weapon, and reflected on his fallen friends. Every weapon she made, it seemed, was an ode to those who were long gone, these days. She too had been missing many who had started her journey along with her.

Perhaps the one she missed the most was not her love, but the frail young girl she used to be. Incapable of battle, or even some of the most menial day-to-day tasks, but with a heart much softer and pure. She didn't dwell on that, though.

Now, she had a final instruction. To place upon the blade the foulest runes she had ever mustered. That was not an easy feat, considering the type of work she did naturally.

Or at least, it wouldn't have been easy, were she not the craftswoman she is.

The runes were applied in a thick sheen of darkness. The language of the angels written upon the surface of the blade in an instant, with almost no discernible effort from the Den-Mother. Then, she did just as he asked.

Her hand was held out, and blackness flowed forth from her eyes, her palms, and her mouth. It seeped from her, as black and decadent as any other nearly-lost occultist would be able to channel it. And it flowed onto the blade, without remorse.

It would be up to Maertock to continue it himself as well. To seal the blade in shadows. To consecrate its passing back into his hand. A tool of such ill purpose would only be fitting to have its birth sealed in the most rotten shadows in all Esshar.

By the time it had been done, she'd say,

"...A fine tool..."

Her eyes did not leave the new Saltspite. A creation that would surely sit in a spot among her very greatest.
(Duniya Vartuul)
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 Maertock's eyes would trace the magnificent running as the Captain of the Deep Company's eyes became black as a great white smelling blood. His abyssally black, kraken tainted mana would flow forth in a tidal wave of dark energy. Runes filled to the brim with the foul interweaval of Duniya's helheimic and Maertock's kerdanhelic occultism.

Dread Saltspite was born in darkness, the very shroud of shadows around it absorbed into its shimmerless silver blade as the absolutely massive cutlass was heaved upwards into the air. It was damned near as heavy as a great sword, but more the better to represent the gravity of the Deep.

With a sputter, all of the darkness would be forced within the blade as it was sealed at last; the living claw of the reaver made manifest through the tireless work of the two remnants of a long lost time.

With a raking flourish of the blade, he'd offer it for both Duniya and himself to view with nothing less than awe struck silence. It wasn't just a weapon. It was a promise realized, a mandate made certain. As shadows swirled in an oroboros around the blades sifting edge not unlike a sea serpent, the blade was sheathed in Maertock's belt as the slimy wriggling of the organic handle sloshed in understanding.

Dread Saltspite was alive once more, and he was ready to reave.

"...Made by the finest few. He's a legend in the making Dun, I don't know how to thank you."
(Maertock Reave)
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 Duniya shook her head, a slight smile adorning her countenance as she looked upon his appreciation over the blade she had forged for him.

"No need for thanks. Just continue to wage a fresh Hel upon the people of Achyon, if you don't mind."

That being said, it seemed their outing was over. She patted his shoulder, and said,

"Perhaps you'd like to come attend my daughter's wedding. I'm sure you've seen it in papers, or heard about it from criers.

Osronans will be there, but this is not their land... you'll be free to if you'd like."
(Duniya Vartuul)
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 Maertock would click his rows of serrated teeth with cheer as he glanced down at the blade for a time in silent admiration. It truly was a beautiful weapon; far more than just an upgrade to an old weapon.

Dread Saltspite was a new, unliving blade born from a necro sharkster and a black dragon's touch. It was something entirely greater from the parts that made its whole.

"I don't. I haven't grown any less resentful of Achyon, nor have I offered my nephews anything less than a clear reasoning to mug cogs at any opportunity. It'll build character."

The shadow shark would snicker at that, offering Duniya a wink as she patted his shoulder.

"The old den mother trying to take a pirate lord as the date to her daughter's wedding? Truly fiendish, such lecherous eyes upon my divine physique."

The shark would bark out in laughter at that.

"If I am not busy, it sounds fun. I have not been to a wedding in a long time. I think it's what people in their fourties do to pass time."