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Archprelate Dolf Antolin was a paladin of Yatindar during the Fourth Crusades. He had spent all his life preparing for the one day, when he would lead Crusaders westward, into the Ogre Nations. In one day, all his dreams died.
The crusaders had mobilized their fleet and their forces at Giranhad, south of Rhythis on the shores of the Aboriac Sea. Preparations had been in order for nearly five years, and everything was set to begin. One more day, and the crusaders would have left Giranhad with five-hundred thousand troops, aboard fifteen thousand galleons. All their weapons, equipment, horses, and supplies were loaded, and ready to go. Archprelate Antolin was in his element, coordinating, preparing, and getting ready. And then a priest burst into his chambers, with grave news. Everything and everyone near Rhythis would die. The whole of the the inner lands, and the thousands of leagues around Lake Kiriath would be destroyed. The Granite Clan of dwarves would perish. The Rakis Desert's elves would be exterminated. The nations in the center lands would disintegrate. And they had four months to evacuate millions. The Fourth Crusades disintegrated into a rescue mission with a new goal: save the world. The archprelate was energized. The rescue proceeded as best it could, and Dolf Antolin was, by luck or design, the best man for the job. An excellent swordsman and a master organizer, the archprelate used his considerable resources to establish control routes, secure food lines, and keep order as he contacted and forceably evacuated the area. He made hard, hellacious choices that forever blackened his soul. He knew he had finite time, and finite resources; he could only rescue so many people. Those were the hardest decisions he ever made -- who would live, and who would die. The next four months nearly drove him into the grave. He didn't eat. He couldn't sleep. There was too much to do, and too little time. He made more enemies, and killed more people, than anyone since the Storm Wars. He didn't even ask for forgiveness. He knew where he was going, when he died: straight to hell. He tried to stay behind in Giranhad, knowing that the city would lie beneath the Aboriac Sea in a week. His prelates conspired against him, forcing him to leave as they evacuated the city in over-filled galleons and ships, some appropriated, and some hastily made. Archprelate Antolin's heart nearly gave out on him when the Second Detonation occurred (the first being the destruction of two-thirds of Nabrol). The Second Detonation was by far, more powerful; the heat, shock waves, tidal waves, and rain of debris sent millions to their graves. Powerful priest spells were all that protected those that escaped. The archprelate of the crusaders turned his pain and sorrow, to anger. He turned the crusaders on a new target. Nabrol had made use of the chaos and confusion of the Fourth Crusade's collapse. They took Kur Maeth, and they intended to use it as a staging area to take the rest of the west. Dolf Antolin looked west, and the rumors say that he spoke with a snarling lip, "Let's kick over that hell hole of a city, and see what vermin runs out screaming." Kur Maeth was the most corrupt city in all the world, filled with more poison, treachery, larceny, slavery, drugs, contraband, and death than any other save the heart of Nabrol. Under Antolin's direction, Kur Maeth fell in two short weeks of bloody battle. The Nabrolians had no rage to match the rage of the archprelate, and though he had a death wish, he could not die. He fought from street to bloody street, slaying the Nabrolian giants, slaughtering the Nabrolian priests, and decimating the Nabrolian troops. Nabrol himself turned his attention to the archprelate, sending two archons, Dalekth and Murol, against the man. Dolf Antolin was too stubborn to die, even with the deaths of millions looming over his head. As a hurricane ravaged the newly conquered city of Kur Maeth, the archprelate of the Fourth Crusades drew down lightning from the storm to sunder the wings of the two archons. Fighting on the ground tore down a dozen homes and businesses, as Antolin brought down more and more lightning with his prayers. His prelates and his priests slew the archon Murol, and then had to withdraw from the might of the storm. Nabrol's archon Dalekth became enraged, drawing upon Nabrol's might in the midst of the hurricane. Antolin redoubled his efforts, energizing his twin longswords with his own rage. Yatindar's lightning stormed through the weapons, putting the archprelate and the archon on a level playing field. No one walked away from the battle. Dalekth's corpse was little more than charred feathers and bone. Dolf Antolin's corpse was cut up so badly that the broken long sword held in his dead hand was the only way to identify him; of the other longsword, they could find no trace. The prelates remarked that there was no human way a man could survive such punishment, and it was agreed that the archprelate had died a saint. When prelate Talon Bramord ascended to the archprelacy, he nominated Saint Antolin for the Church of Yatindar in Karmen, to be the patron saint of the city. For two years, Archprelate Talon Bramord awaited word from the church in Karmen. In the interim, Kur Maeth grew under the watchful eyes of the paladins. The crusaders held the city, and all of the lands around it. The Ogre Nations lay just over the mountains to the west. The untamed Laekenala jungle lay just over the river to the east. With the aid of the Rakorans, and the Sholin, the city prospered. The new archprelate patiently waited, seeing report after report from his paladins. Gledikal was still on the streets. It was said that the spirit of Dolf Antolin -- Saint Antolin -- still walked the streets, longswords in hand. One longsword was as much spirit as the fallen archprelate; the other, lost sword, dealt very real justice. During thunder storms, as lightning arced overhead, the saint was rumored to stalk the dark of soul. Though the paladins were good men in heart and deed, they were not omnipotent. The dark, ugly core of Kur Maeth still remained, try though the paladins might to clean it out. The thieves, slavers, drug runners, smugglers, pirates, and other assorted scum went underground, or moved just up the river, still operating out of Kur Maeth. The saint's spirit still hunted them, moving all through the city-state, striking by storm. Lightning-burnt bodies and charred remains were all that was found. When word arrived from Karmen, Bramord was both relieved and disappointed; Saint Antolin would be Yatindar's patron saint -- of the Fourth Crusades. Gledikal worried the archprelate, though. He wasn't certain that it was the spirit of the saint that was wielding the blade. And he wasn't sure he liked the thought of who might really have the weapon. He had seen first hand the damage Gledikal could wreak. The twin longswords had been custom made for the archprelate in Giranhad, by a smith named Ely Morovan. The metal was blued, giving the swords a blue and silver appearance -- the colors of Yatindar. The hilts were wrapped with blue leather, bound by silver wire, and the cross guards were angled and sharpened to serve as silvery blades. Dolf Antolin's only item of value, prior to the making of the sword, had been a large blue diamond that had been given to him as a gift by the church. Antolin had the diamond split and faceted, and set upon the tips of the silvery pommels of the swords. Both weapons' heft and edge were on the verge of magical, they were so finely wrought. Unfortunately, they were the last works Ely Morovan ever did. His was one of the souls Dolf Antolin had had to leave behind to die. After the historic battle in Kur Maeth, the death of two archons, the death of its wielder, and the lightning that was sent through the swords so many times, the surviving weapon was changed. The broken sword, Revikal, had shattered in its delivery of the death strike to the archon Dalekth. The resultant explosion of lightning from the weapon sent Gledikal, Revikal's sister blade, soaring into the air. Where it fell, no one knows. The diamond stored lightning, and the blade directed it. Gledikal became a holy bastard sword +3 of lightning in the hands of a paladin; in the hands of anyone else, it functioned as a longsword +1. The weapon stored electrical energy in the diamond on its pommel, and released it down the length of the blade. It took six marks to store one charge, up to a maximum of four charges. The charges could be expended separately, or used in any combination -- each charge acted as a 1d6 point lightning bolt. If need be, Gledikal could direct a 4d6 point lightning bolt at one target, after a full day's worth of charging. Additonally, a charge from the weapon could be expended as light; the blade would glow with blue electrical fire, shedding light within 35'. The light capabilities of the blade took no charges, and could be used at the will of the wielder.
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