A Wielder Artifact

An excerpt from a short writing about the nature of a Wielder’s Artifact. By Gorogeid Tine of the Mire Attic

“When we go off to do battle among the chaos of some stricken outpost or fringeland , we are often sent by the noteriety of our Artifact and the knowledge that we are Wielders and we possess some wonderous gift, inheritance, or divine heirloom. Those that send us may be General, Governance or Officiate title holder, though it has been made clear, at least to me, that most high position holders have little understanding what the Artifact of the Wielder is, what it does, or how we have come into possession of our own special devices. Most Wielders that I have come to know did not understand the systems and measures in the Realm of Twain that were created to seek out good and noble Wielders and to regulate and monitor the powerful Artifacts they possess. Most are ignorant of that effort to maintain a hold by the Governance and Officiate, the Noble and Elite to ensure they are not overrun or surpassed in their high standing and domination of the masses by any collective of Artifact-wielding menacers.

Those who don’t know are sure to eventually find out. Paperwork! Orders, conscriptions, service mandates, numerical assignations and ordinance limits determinations by degree of concussive, impact, thermal, degradation magnitudes… These things become common ideas to a Wielder in time. My name was once well known among the Courts of Saint in White Arm Coast for I was a servant of their Noble Estates. It was my duty to guard and oversee the militia line during the Krink Vorpide incursions in Cycle 580 through 610. My arm was heavy with the weight of my Artifact, the Sword Deck or Scythe Deck as some call it. In my greener days, one would just as likely find me cartwheeling and corkscrewing 20 foot overhead as they would striding the walks of the White Arm. The gyroscopic wheels of my dear Artifact kicking to life upon activation would bring an internal ferocity to the iron skein and torsion bar, the attached blade bar, long and wicked; I could pivot on my boot heal, do a twirl to match the gyro, flick my wrist downward and brace for an upward launching with the ‘swatch, swatch, swatch’ of the blade arm cutting the salt air of the coast. My sharp eye marking a foe below, I’d flick my wrist to violently angle and careen downward again to meet my mark….”