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Ninth March, xxxx (the text has been smudged)
South of the Little Lake
My name is xxxxx (the text has been smudged*) . I am a young man wandering the countryside trying to avenge my father's death with my talking sword. Depending on who you are and whom you are connected to, that may sound crazy or it may sound cliche. Both assessments would be correct; it's crazy for me to try this on my own, and it has been done before. However, there's a bit of a catch.
My father was a master swordsman, and his prodigious skill was augmented by his sentient blade. They understood one another more than any man can expect to understand a piece of metal and much more than the average piece of metal can understand a man. One day, however, it was not enough.
I do not know how he died, but I am more or less aware who killed him. Indeed, I had to be in order to follow his trail and reclaim his sword. However, I cannot yet right this wrong. Having had no other wielder, Durendal here is understandably shaken up, and for some reason blames me for his master's death. Consequently, neither of us can regain our composure, much less work together. I can only drag him out of his sheath in especially dire circumstances or when I've managed to impress him with my ability to use lesser blades, and thus we are at an impasse when we ought to be able to level mountains.
*or the author is lazy and will edit this later
