Goonalan's D&D 5th Edition Campaigns
Magic Item- Hewer (3)
+1 Greatsword Goblin Slayer
“Hewer” +1 Greatsword.
Hewer is a +1 Greatsword, it adds the following benefits to the wearer once attuned-
+1 to hit & damage.
Hewer is a Goblin Bane weapon- it does additional damage when it hits a Goblinoid- the amount of damage it does increases as more Goblinoids are slain by the weapon- the weapon, in effect, steals the creature’s souls. Hewer is Vengeance personified.
REMEMBER- YOU NEED TO DELIVER THE KILLING BLOW TO STEAL A GOBLINOIDS SOUL WITH THIS WEAPON.
PLEASE FEEL FREE TO REMIND THE DM WHEN YOU DO SO- I HAVE A TICK SHEET.
It may have other powers, see below.
Many magic items that need to be attuned possess a fragmented memory of their own existence, these ‘memories’ play out in dreams or visions witnessed by the newly attuned wielder, sometimes the dreams or visions are triggered by in-game events or experiences.
Interested adventurers can attempt to learn more about the item through research, or else by employing magical means.
Generally the first three ‘memories’ of the magic item will be presented below, other ‘memories’ will remain secret- only visible here to the wielder of the item.
A sudden lurching sensation, the ring of metal and the jump of sparks- a smithy or else a foundry; the fizz and pop of molten metal, and the sizzle of hot iron dipped in brine. The hammers ring, the entire hall vibrates as the dwarves sing.
A host of voices rich and deep, a sonorous dirge with dissonant waves that echo and crash as the hammers- the HAMMERS FALL.
And then a single snatched moment of silence, when all work stops, or else time takes a moment to cease its toil.
Hewer the greatblade is grabbed up from the anvil, dipped once deep in frothing bubbling brine, and raised in salute to the master smith.
Gripping the blade, the vision seems to come from Hewer’s point of view, is a thick-set massively muscled dwarf. The scared and burnt veteran grins, his salt and pepper beard twitches, one eye masked by a gem-set patch the other a milky orb of white.
The dwarven master smith grins at what he has wrought.
The blade, Hewer, half again taller than its creator.
And then the dirge drone begins again, as stepping from shadows come a septet of cowled dwarven priests- the sounds they make, the noise that shakes- Hewer thrums, echoes, and vibrates…
The pulsing probing sound of the priests coalesces and shapes until it is a tunnel of fury, matched only by a creeping hate, that seeks only to destroy.
You wake, bathed in sweat and with your mother’s name on your lips, the first time you have been frightened since you were a child.
A cavern wide, with dwarves stood side-by-side, a horn sounds and the ground vibrates and thrums- like a rolling tide, as the goblin hordes pour forth, a filthy rolling tide that froths and breaks upon the dwarves stood side-by-side, in the cavern wide.
And standing at the back, behind a wall of dwarf flesh and metal stacked, watching the war enact is Hewer and its master.
The dwarf that holds the blade, that clutches the massive greatsword in just one mailed fist, is bigger (and taller) than any dwarf could ever be.
Twelve feet at least, and encased in steel from skull to feet.
Visible, just, through the great dwarf’s visored helm are two burning points of light, like flame or else the molten flux of liquid stone.
A sudden burst of shimmering fog, exits from the helm and the great dwarf is set in motion.
Ahead the dwarves part like the sea as Hewer and its master rumble forward, and then dash- screaming…
And clash- the goblins are cleft in swathes, hewed they fall.
The call comes again as the massed ranks of dwarves step back, and leave the magical blade and its master to the fight.
And still the goblins come.
The horn sounds the last, as the last dwarf exits the path, and Hewer and its master are left to fight them all.
In a cavern great a massive dwarf with Hewer armed slays all that dare approach- another horde of goblins rush forth, and yet neither the magical sword or its master’s thirst is slaked.
Hewer destroys them all.
For a darkened hour the vision of Hewers power is etched into Grimm’s troubled thoughts.
The great dwarf continues to laugh and call-
Until the last goblin, finally, falls.
The dwarf salutes the dying, his mighty blade Hewer raised in a ghastly salute.
The visor of the dwarf’s helm is lifted so that Grimm can at last see.
With fanged teeth that gleam, the terrible dwarf licks the blade clean- savoring the blood of the fallen.
Then turns to stare straight out of the dream.
Grimm awakes, he still shakes, across the room Hewer, now his blade, stands against the wall surrounded by a glistening pool of blood.