#// outdated and contains elements that ended up retconned one way or another

[alfvangr]

✧ REGALIA.

          One who does not care well for their weapon will eventually find themselves betrayed by it. Wise words imparted to you during the earliest days of your swordsmanship training, accepted with no less than the solemn understanding borne of a dutiful prince. Spending as many hours with a polishing rag in hand as you did honing your bladework, even turning to less favored armaments simply to broaden the scope of your knowledge; a diligence continuously rewarded over the course of weeks and months as told in sparsely-given praise. Menial work beneath a royal’s pedigree, others would say, but you had felt none of their discontent as your own. It would not have been taught to you were it deemed unnecessary—such was how it’d seemed to you then.

          Gold-hued edges gleam warmly under a critical eye, Fólkvangr granted its due maintenance even when many a day passes in which it is never drawn from the sheath. Delivered back into your hands after being purposefully left behind in Askr, you were at first resigned to stowing it away alike a thief’s stolen treasure; its existence only revealed to the world in such times of crisis that you could not conscience favoring a lesser sword. Your fabricated identity had little rhyme or reason to be in possession of a regalia weapon otherwise—and consequently, aroused suspicion among the keener-eyed of your peers.

          It is a mercy that an even smaller few, made privy to the truth through means beyond your control, have kindly turned a blind eye thus far. A lie of omission is still a lie, after all, and one you’ve maintained for nearly three years now. (Not for much longer, you’ve decided. It’s long past time to wake up and face the music.)

          Gloved fingers trace over the stone set into the blade’s guard, crystalline blue emitting a soft glow in response. You know it to be a weapon forged in the distant past, passed down through generations of Askran royalty...though little else is recorded of its history. Different from the numerous treasures spread across other realms in that it bears no legend of its own, yet still a league apart from ordinary arms; mystically attuned to its wielder to the extent you’ve wondered if it somehow possessed an approximation of sentient will. But any answers Father might have had followed him to the grave, and you rarely write to Mother if ever.

          All the same, it has served as a stalwart companion throughout your many trials, your brightest and darkest moments. Even stained with the blood of both ally and enemy, it has not spurned your hand, and amidst prayers for forgiveness you hope it will remain at your side even well into the future. So you return Fólkvangr to its scabbard once more, not to store it away this time but to wear it proudly upon your sword belt. Walking into the daylight beyond your little dormitory that it may shine unfettered and free.