This is the next blade of the prophecy listed in [link]
This is Baudriel, The Blade of Vengeance. Wielded by an elven hunter who can shapeshift into a wolf form, the elf has recently been infected by a werewolf, and thus is slowly being overcome by the taint of darkness. Will he choose to purge the poison from his body, and lose the wolf half of himself in the process, or remain infected, harnessing the powers of the hunt granted by the infection? It was not easy. It never was. Not since that day long ago. He often tried to remember the times before, when the spirit of the wolf still ran free within his blood, like the silver shadow he was through the forest trees. How, like his brethren beside him, he sang in purity to the moon, reveling in itís strength as he hunted the Orc filth that sprain eternal from the Stonelands and drove it from the pristine borders of the lands of his people. With claw and tooth, and moon forged steel, shifting form on a whim to fight with his pack, his brothers, beside him, they were silver shadows in the night, the Aryílitherii, the Moonlight Hunters. Each bound to the spirit of the wolf, itís nobility, itís grace, speed, and power, and itís sacred purity of all that the elves revered of nature. Until the slaughter, until the butchery and blood, until the splintering of the pack and the loss of Kethruilae. He couldnít allow himself to think of her, how the moonlight would shine, like white flame across her ebon hair, how it caressed the contours of her pale skin and white fur in equal delight, the pain tore too deep in his soul.
There were darker things within the Stonelands than the Orc, and the cursed beast that fell upon them was the very nightmares of that darkness. He knew of what it was, all the Aryílitherii had heard of the perversion. Lycanfenris, Wolf Demon, Werewolf, Loup-Garou, and a host of other names, a creature of darkness that twisted and perverted all that was sacred about the wolf, and turned it into a feral, raving, beast of carnage. This foulness before them eclipsed all that he had ever heard of before however, tearing into the pack with claws of midnight, towering above them all in a monstrous caricature of both man and beast, coarse fur matted with the blood of his brethren as their bodies fell in both wolf and elven form around him, their entrails steaming in the cool air, their eyes fixed glassily at the moon for eternity. In his mindís eye he could see the beast turn to Keth, and feel the knot clench in his bowels as it spoke in a language not heard in centuries. The language of power, of obedience, the tongue of their origins, the beast before them was of the ancient, the Fey. He remembers his cry, his rush to push Keth away from the claws of the beast, He feels again the lancing fires as they tear through his skin, watching in bitter victory as Keth shimmers in the moonlight and races away to safety, her baying a low mournful note on the wind.
Time passes, seasons change, and he truly does not know now how long it has been. He only remembers the sword beside him, and the stranger who gave it to him. The stranger who tended his wounds, speaking only in rhyme, if ever, warning him of the poison that now burns ever slowly hotter in his body. Giving him the blade, Baudriel, itís visage of the wolf looking serenely at him from the pommel, itís name inscribed upon the steel blade. He warned that as the poison waxed and waned with the moon, so too would the sword change, the visage becoming more dire in appearance, the bladeís name and hilt would burn under the moonlight, shining with a silver radiance. It was only later he discovered the meaning of the swordís name, an ancient word, a Fey word meaning ĎVengeanceí, and he understood what he needed to do. He was a hunter, and he knew his prey. He would find the creature and bury the blade into its black heart, vanquishing itís taint on nature and avenging his fallen brethren. But the years have become centuries, and the bladeís features have shifted. Now the visage of the beast never changes, never sleeps, the runes burn always with the silver fires. The moon, so welcome before, now is a curse, as it brings the darkness to his soul, and he must restrain himself from becoming the prey he seeks. To purge the poison would remove all that is the wolf within, the beast and the spirit. Could he lose half of himself and still live? Perhaps. But the power! The strength and speed, the fire that courses in his blood brings with it the very tools needed to find his prey, and the weapons to defeat it! And when it is done, perhaps then, Keth will still be waiting, perhaps.
But each moonrise it becomes harder, each full moon a torture. A race against time that he knows is almost finished, but which beast will be dead when it is all over? Perhaps the swordís edge was meant for himself?
Enough! The moon rises again, time to hunt!