[ WP ] You have been given a magic sword . It has a reputation of getting it 's owners killed .

Come here, son, and I shall tell you of the secret of the man that tamed that most heinous of hilts, that most dooming of devices, the sickening sword known by name alone, the *Kopftötenschwert*. 
 
 It began in ages past - how, we may never know. Some say a kingdom dying of famine was saved by its king's self-sacrifice, but the death-curse lived on in the sword. Some say a vengeful smith created it to spite those who had cheated him. Some say it was created of evil itself, to end those who would oppose it. These are stories for another time, however. What is important is the secret. 
 
 My grandfather discovered the *Kopftötenschwert* on one of his daily walks. A knight - of whose kingdom we never discovered - had died by his own hand. The dead arm still held the hilt of the dread blade, and of course your great-grandfather knew that this was indeed the *Kopftötenschwert* because of the manner of death. The knight had impaled himself in the head with it, as all the tales tell. 
 
 Our family is not a rich one now, and it was not then. We had no land, merely worked another's so that we could live there, and we had no treasures. We hardly ever had food of our own, almost all we grew went to those who owned the land. We did not starve, but we did not live well. 
 
 
 Grandfather knew the reputation of the sword. He knew that if he took it up, he would one day find himself in the exact same position as that man, having stabbed himself in the head. But, our family was in need. My grandfather was no warrior, and he knew that while all the tales ended in self-inflicted tragedy, there were tales of those who had owned the *Kopftötenschwert* but did not attempt to wield it. They, too, eventually failed, but they also tended to live slightly longer lives. He could, he hoped, take the sword, and then sell it to another. Ideally, a collector so interested in rare memorabilia that they would be willing to overlook the deadly consequences of owning such a weapon. More likely, a gullible idiot. It may seem ruthless of him, but the years were worse and worse, and the drought threatened to end us all. He did what he had to do to survive. 
 
 Which, as you know, he did not. You were not yet born, but you have already been told this portion of the tale: The press-gangs came, and they took him to fight the war in the south. My father was of age, by far the more viable member to kidnap, but grandfather insisted they take him instead. He revealed *Kopftötenschwert* to them, then, telling them that it was a magic sword that he would use in the war, if they allowed him to go in father's place. Press-gangs are not ones to negotiate, ordinarily, but these did not wish to take the chance that the sword was real, for if they denied the offer and attempted kidnap, it was possible they would lose more men than they would gain. So they agreed. 
 
 We told you your great-grandfather died in the war, and that is true. What you were not told until today was that it was the first day he saw battle, and his life ended at his own hand, the *Kopftötenschwert* through his head. 
 
 They sent his remains home, terrible sword included, for certainly the army did not want such an infamous cursed weapon in its midst. And so your father took over ownership. 
 
 The years were bad, but we survived. Two of my brothers did not - one of illness, the other a victim of the war in the east. Over time, the greed of our masters increased, and the hold over their lands diminished. They demanded more of the crop, but patrolled fewer of the streets. Crime rose, and so it was that when you were but a child, your grandfather - my father - took up the sword in self-defense. 
 
 Our house was the target of bandits. They broke in through the door with axes, like siege-men assaulting a castle gate. Broken veterans of the wars, men who the masters had forgotten and left to die, back for vengeance on everyone they perceived to be at fault. I hid you underneath our floor, and I ran to help my father, but it was too late. He had already unsheathed the sword. 
 
 It gave the bandits pause. The *Kopftötenschwert* is recognizable only for its aftereffects, but there is still something about it that unnerves the common man. It was perhaps that reason that the press-gangs had believed my grandfather so long ago. The invaders hesitated, but then they attacked. 
 
 You know me now, you know my legend. The battles I have won and the evils I have faced. You may think me a brave man but here is the truth I have never admitted to you: I am a coward. When my life was truly in danger, I froze. I could not fight alongside my father's side. 
 
 It was not a long fight, but as I could not move I did only what I could. I watched. And that's when I learned the secret of the sword. 
 
 The tales all end the same way, but there are those who do not use the sword to fight until they are forced to. My father's tale is now one of them, and it ends the same way. What the tales do not tell is what happens during the fight, and that is the all-important part. 
 
 My father lunged forward, trying to stab one of the intruders in the gut, and the sword balked. It twisted away. The bandits again paused, warily, for the sword had obviously done something magical. It did not take long for them to conclude, correctly, that this magic was not aiding my father. 
 
 Desperate, he swung the sword at the nearest man, trying to slice, and that is when his tale came to an end. The blade lit as though newly-forged. It swung back around, sharply, and before any present could react had buried itself up to its hilt in my father's head. 
 
 That is the end of his tale, but it is not the end of mine. I never told you before why I took up the dread sword, or how I survived its deadly legacy. I took up the sword to avenge my father. I did so not out of rage, or hope, or even the belief that I would survive the encounter unimpaled, but out of despair. I would die, yes, I would be another claimed by the blade of the damned, but I would kill as many of the bandits as I could. I would do so in my father's name, by making them suffer as they made him suffer. 
 
 They knew what the sword was, then. They laughed when I pulled it from its grisly resting place, knowing I was signing my own death warrant. The dark thrum of the sword's magic buzzed in my arm, its call to death overpowering in my mind, and I lunged forward with a cry of grief and gave to the bandit what he had coming. I stabbed him in the head. 
 
 I do not know who among us was more shocked, myself or the bandits. 
 
 I pulled the sword from their fallen brother and stabbed at the gut of the next man, and the sword failed me as it had initially failed my father, bucking in my grasp and pulling away. I could feel the hatred in the blade, the sudden rage at being mis-used, and I almost began to attempt to slice the bandit before I remembered what had happened when my father had tried. 
 
 So, instead, I did what had worked the first time. I stabbed the bandit in the head. 
 
 Twice victorious and, perhaps more unbelievably, twice having not stabbed myself with a sword, I pressed the advantage. A third invader found his head being used as a sheath, and then a fourth. The fifth, perhaps deciding that my father had merely been pretending to wield *Kopftötenschwert* and was extremely dedicated to the illusion, ran. I caught after him - such an unholy rush of energy that allowed the pursuit I had never felt before - and then, too, he faced a sword. Or rather, I sworded his face. 
 
 This, then, is the secret of the weapon. It is how I survived the war in the west. It is how I defeated the ten-headed hydra. Once you understand the secret, you will see how that was actually easier. It is how I gained the legend I have today. I am not a brave man, because I can not now be defeated. I am a coward, because I dared not risk my life for another when I could. 
 
 Here, are the rules of the sword: 
 
 You must stab your enemy in the head. 
 
 The sword will be offended should you attempt to stab anywhere else. It will balk at the attempt, twist away from you and perhaps harm you somewhat in the process. This is not it at its deadliest, though I suspect if you tried you would raise its temper such that it would murder you. I never attempted to find out. 
 
 Secondly: You Must. Not. Slice. Ever. Not for practice, not to parry, not even in reflex. Never. You must train yourself, though not with this sword because you can not yet draw it. You must use a wooden sword and re-train yourself to only stab with it so you never accidentally slice. For in all the true versions of the tales I have found - and scarce few are those - it is then that the wielder of the sword is killed. The sword forgives, in its way, a misplaced stab, but its temper is fierce and it will not allow itself to be swung. 
 
 When you leave tomorrow morning to fight the war in the north, take this weapon with you. It is the unbreakable sword that has taken a thousand lives, and though most of those lives were of those who wielded it, it is an artifact of immense power in the hands of one who knows how to use it. 
 
 Finally, do not unsheathe it until you are absolutely certain you wish for someone to die, for this is *Kopftötenschwert*, the sword that can not - will not - be sheathed until it has stabbed a man in the head.
