Heart of the Prakhutu

The Heart of the Prakhutu is a huge crystalline artifact recovered from the Tomb of the Shadowsword by an expedition party.

It was previously in the possession of Nakhelos the Sacrosanct.

## Description

Viciously jagged but impressively intricate all at once, the Heart of the Prakhutu takes the appearance of a ruby-like gemstone large enough to take two hands to effectively hold.

## Research

### Completed by Zareyl Arkenviir

Shaped from jagged crystal and topped with valves and vessels of a tarnished bronze-like alloy, this heart weighs ten pounds and gives off a faint dim glow. Ebbing and pulsing as a heartbeat a small light emulates a faded aura of warmth which seems to grow the more the heart is handled, or greater still as it drinks in the light of nearby torches and candles. After holding the artifact for anything longer than a few seconds, steam appears to form from within, escaping slowly through the metal composition atop it. After a couple of minutes, it becomes too hot to hold entirely, save for those with a natural resistance or immunity to exposure to intense heat or flame. It appears that the crystal itself is chipped in two places, one larger fragment taken from the side, and two smaller fragments claimed from the apex. The warmth and light within the heart seems to falter near these wounds, a opalescent haze obscuring the transparency in these areas.

Spending further time with the artifact, the energy contained within starts to reach out to your mind. Visions, memories, hallucinations - whatever they are deemed, they start to take hold in the quiet moments of contemplation, passing daydreams, even the trances in the dead of night.

In the first you stand decorated in lustrous glory, armour of polished bronze gleaming like the sun overhead. The arid heat of the day warms your skin and the striped fur over it, the weight of the armour a pleasant burden as you drop to a deep and reverence-filled bow. As you rise, you feel the weight of your greatsword, a blackened piece of metal honed sharp by means mundane and magical alike. Infernal runes glow bright with vigour as you make your pledge to your liege - the words "Rise, Rage, Rend" echoed both on your silvered tongue and the weapon's glyphs alike. The pale centauroid looms, its cadaverous wings blocking the sun for an instant as they stretch wide. Scarred knots of fibrous tissue contort and writhe around its bloodied and naked torso, thrice pierced by twisted nails of rusted and corroded iron. Into a sandstorm the huge monstrosity vanishes and those in the plaza ahead fall into deep worship at your feet, echoing your own praise.

In the second you sit upon a throne, all manner of beings coming forward to make requests and pleas that you manage as steward to your master. And yet you sense the duty laid before you is not at the forefront of your mind, but rather that of concern. The Storm of Rust was unyielding in its efforts, spawned into existance by the impulses of the mortals on the many planes it had called home. Fear, greed, sorrow, hatred - all of them seeds sown, with the promise of a bloody harvest to come as they sprouted and bloomed. And yet the Everstretching Tempest started to falter, obsessed in its pursuit of the whispers that called for its attention. Into Dal Quor again and again the Tempest vanished, and whenever it returned its mind seemed less and less its own - and more and more so that of the realm of ephialtes.

The third starts with a single step, crossing the boundary in the night's sky into the starlight citadel of the Lantern Lord. Once more you drop to your knees, pledging fealty to a new master, but your pleas for assistance fall upon the deafened ears of the Custodian of the Silver Flame. Your beguiling tongue dances once more, renouncing all that which you once held esteemed upon high. Casting aside the title of Prakhutu, no longer speaker for the Tempest, you will your blade reforged - a request finally heard by the Holder of the Scales. To the Master of the Hammer your blade was granted, though the infernal runes are left untouched as a reminder of the path you once travelled. Presenting the blade once more to the Lantern Lord, you make your request once more, begging for him to protect the Tempest from the traps and snares of the stalker in the place of reveries. No answer comes.

The fourth returns you to the world once more, the warmth of the sands pleasant and comforting against the bared souls of your feet. A great crowd follows you, and to them you speak the truth - the corruption at the heart of the one they herald as their majestic demiurge. They see it too now, their mind and eyes opened to the corruption prowling in the mind of the Storm and so they denounce it too, telling the neighbours and foes alike. All that hear the truth believes it, save for three, for they had already grown powerful beneath the Storm, and now sought to gain even more. Stoic, they turn to violence, wielding blade, magics and words alike. Enlightened as they were, they could not stand against the cruelty of the three, all in time falling to the great butchery.

The fifth and final is an echoing lament filled with pain. The dead surround you, and your flesh and body bleeds with them and for them alike. The three loom, the first Lord of Dust taking your hand with the edge of his curved blade. The second Lord of Dust gnaws at your throat with serpentine fangs, paralysing your flesh while waves of panic and primal fear wash through your thoughts. With an unblinking gaze, the third Lord of Dust steps forth hand outreached. Claws pierce skin wrought and torn by the fight moments past, but new pain sears all the same. The clawed fingers dig deeper, disappearing into your chest. Your breath falters as half a dozen ribs shatter from the force, and then a tightening strain draws the last life from your soul. With darkening vision, a bloodied pulsating heap is drawn forth, fossilising in an instant from the necrotic aura of the Sacrosanct. Above them rages a mighty sandstorm, once a comforting sight but now all you can spy is the corruption at its heart, and the puppeter's strings upon its mind. The three pay little mind, reaching skyward for the gifts granted - gifts given freely in payment for your demise.

The memory ends, and you find yourself in your study peering into the crystalline heart once more.