When the Worldsmith forged the first sword, He invited the sea to witness.

And the sea muttered and raged, but gathered upon the shore as if drawn by the moon, that self-same moon which gleamed upon His anvil of pearlescent shell, His hammer of stormcloud and sirocco gale, arrayed upon the sands.

For in the beginning, there was nothing but the sea, and the memory of the deep is eternal.

Yet the future, too, moves upon the waters, and with each ringing blow of hammer on starstone the sea shivered with foresight.

The Worldsmith drew shining metal from superheated meteor, a divine ideal of a weapon, shimmering with spring-tide spray.

Every sword yet-to-be would rise in its image, each transgressing time, slaughter inviolate, the blood spilt seeping through soil and stream until the very ocean itself ran crimson with death.

In the beginning, the Worldsmith raised the land to stand beneath His feet. But all stolen things may ever be stolen back.

His hammer fell, one last time, sparks rising to speckle the night sky. Then the sea surged, a choking, quenching torrent across the sands, tearing the blade from His hands and dashing it, salty and brittle, upon the rocks.

And lo, all swords shall rust, all hands that do harm shall bleach upon the lagoon’s shores.