A long time ago, in a distant past twenty years before today, lived a noble tribe of barbarians. Many of them knew how to read and even fewer wrote novels later to be read by others, even by the few humans that dared enter their 'circle'.. of reading.

One amongst them had grown tired of reading about the ancients, about his childhood heroes Madac, Korlic and Talic and Bul Kathos n' his herum of women with overly developed muscular structures. It was true, the savageness of the young one grew bitter once more.

The next morning, the young one left the village, burned his 2 books he had mastered and walked out into the wilderness, cold and alone to the east.... always to the east.

A small cave lay on his path no more than a few hours into this adventure and the young one decided to stop for a bite to eat and some shelter from the cold. Inside he found quill fiends nesting and also feeding on one of his people. Seething with rage the young one beat the quill fiend to death with his bare hands and to his surprise the beating yielding a yellow item. He didn't know why it was yellow or why such a large sword was inside this beast... still, it was so beautiful to behold. He knew it as a weapon of old, a weapon of legend, one he saw in a book.

He clutched it for hours, swinging it inside the cave, pondering future encounters and reveling in his bloody victory, surely he had found a treasure.

Drunk with joy, the young one returned to the village and sought out the village elder. After moments searching he realized the elder was no longer among them, rumors circulated over the coming days about his demise or maybe he just abandoned them to their fate amongst the snows of arreat and the vellum and parchment books between their hands.

The young one groaned and spent days and days reading to his disgust. A local witch also helped him translate the magicks and a few others whom also had grown interested in the fabled blade came to help. Within a few weeks the small group had finally been able to enchant the blade with enough energy to invoke the magicks that lay dormant and to their horror, it was the young one that saw........

The young one, clenching the sword grew angry, he spat curses and began violently cursing. Moments later the sword took over his arm and lunging at numerous villagers sent the remaining barbarians into a tizzy. The young one was overcome with grief, rage and despair after learning that his beloved blade was indeed a weapon of legend but unfortunately it was one crafted by retarted blacksmiths, enchanting the hallowed protector of arreat with intelligence, mana regeneration and extra gold from monsters.

He wept as he slew his brethren, each one fell to the will of the young one.

Weeks later he appeared at the gates of Harrogath and killed everyone in the town, save for one women, a human blacksmith named Charsi. He listened to her tale about a Barbarian that had come to her village 20 years before a month ago and how her skills had helped him overcome the prime evils and eventually the demon lord Baal that corrupted his home land.

He asked her to redeem his honor, to forge for him a holy relic, to smite evil and rid himself of the shame he had inflicted on his people and his homeland. Charsi went to work and made countless weapons. The young one was shocked to see so many armaments appear before him and made from junk he had found around town, unintersting items with a blue tint to them and many many quill fiend kills. Charsi began to nervously imbue these items and relentlessly pleaded with the young one to give her more time. After 6 months of waste and total crap, Charsi took her own life, leaving behind a note for someone to find in the snow at a later date. It read:

Charsi: 'It's been so long since I have been able to craft a worthy item'. I miss the good ol days in the Rogue Encampment and the adventure that man took to bring me back my Horadric Malus but alas no more, those times are gone and with it the ability to craft anything good. And let it be said, the Nightmare of Harrogath shall cleave a scar through Sanctuary and there isn't anything or anyone that can stop him. One more thing, a small engraving lay at the bottom of the blade, perhaps a maker's mark.. it read, J. W. , but I never could figure it out or unravel the mystery behind the sword... who was this blacksmith? Whom did he make this sword for and why was it up here in the north amongst the fiends and beasts. It's getting cold again and I'm not long for this world"