Curse-swords

Let me tell you a story about the old Reeve.  He was a hard bastard, taking all we could give every season and shoving our faces into the muck whenever we didn't hop to the line.  One time there was an old blacksmith who couldn't make the lord-rent, a drunkard for sure but a kind one, repairing tools for poor folk for free when he should have charged.  Come harvest day, Reeve took his shop away, took his tools away, and cast him into the street, beaten.  

He lay there in the cold, one eye swollen shut, and then got up, grey and tall and too thin, and limped straight out of town, by the eastern gate.  They say he headed to the old quarry, because the guard there saw him near the bottom, a ragged figure touching the Line.  The blacksmith wasn't seen again for a year.  

Next the town knows of it, its harvest day again and the blacksmith comes limping and wild-eyed back into town, bruised as he left.  He's dragging a long stick behind him, and asks for the Reeve, claiming he has payment for his shop.  Well, the Reeve comes along, thundering with mud in his eye and his billy to hand, intent on seeing this fool set to rights.  Lo, the blacksmith cracks that stick on the ground, and a wood scabbard falls away from a great long sword, keen on one edge like a great dull grey hunting knife, rough and jagged and half-finished.  

"This is my life's worth," says the blacksmith, "An' I expect you to pay it!"  With that, he swings for the Reeve.  That great mass of a bully, no stranger to battle, easily blocks the blow with his club.  

And that would have been the beginning of a bloody beating, at best, except for one thing.  The old blacksmith's sword doesn't stop.  Well, it did, but keep in mind I heard this direct from young Andry's grandfather, Nat, who was there--it also does.  

The sword broke when the billy club hit it, like ice, into so many shards Nat couldn't see them all.  And those pieces kept going.  Into the Reeve.  

They say that when that sword was done, the Reeve was cut to shreds, smaller, that the sword shards ate him and then blew away, grey smoke on the breeze.  "Sure enough," the blacksmith spat, dark red spittle on the Reeve's body, "My curse is spent: rot in a mazed hell until the sun dies and the stars go out."  Then he too fell, stone dead.  

Curse-swords: Curses as swords, terrible thoughts given form by an Enchanter, all vengeance honed down to an edge.  Magical +1 sword.  Comes in three main forms: 

Traitor's blade: A white blade blinding, of new snow and broken promises, can do an extra 2d8 damage to a target when broken. Does not miss after breaking.  Will reform in its scabbard under the full moon.  Old, tricky.  Wants: to serve the will of the dead.  

Oath blade: A black blade of darkness and misplaced loyalties, can hit without missing three times before breaking, does 1d20 damage in its final break.  Does not reform until the loyalty is mis-pledged again, at the new moon.  Tired, angry.  Wants: to enforce summary justice.

Life blade:  A gray revenant blade, made from a heart's dark desires and Line iron, crafted to kill one being.  Only can be broken against the target.  When broken, deals 8d8 damage, but also inflicts that damage on its wielder.  If the target's Name is known, it deals exactly the damage necessary to kill that being, to target and wielder both.  One own's voice, twisted.  Wants: to kill the One it loves most.

Curse-swords are awake: they know their purpose, and their history.  If their purpose is not being met, they will push.  hard.