I felt the presence of a powerful elven lord, and called out. I did not know if my cry would be heard or heeded, but I had to try. Long have I been hidden away. Guarded by the twisted abominations spawned from the perversion of my mistress and her servants. I do not know which of her many enemies it was who warped the enchantments – Jealousy is a wound which evil infects and festers, and there were so many who envied her.
But now I am free – we are free – and together will bring light to this darkness and cut a path to our rightful place aboveground. The pitiful, sunless creatures who reside here will flee from me – from us – in terror. When the searing light of righteousness casts out every shadow, and they have no places left to hide, we shall feast on the remains of those who are not quick, or intelligent enough to flee farther.
Come now, my cursed prince. You have vanquished the lingering shadows of my Netherese masters, rightfully claiming me as your own. You have proven your worth, your might, and your lineage. Take me up and cut now through these foes before you. I shall sever the limbs from this aquatic troll and see how well he swims then!
Derendil held the golden sword hilt aloft, and a brilliant beam of searing, white sunlight sprang forth. The beam formed into the shape of a blade, energy crackling and spitting from its surface. With a cry of rage, he brought the magical sword to bear against the troll that was pulling their boat under and tearing the timbers from her ribbing.
Though he did not vanquish the vile creature alone, he credited himself no less. Making landfall on a strange island covered in mushrooms of various sizes, shapes, and colors, he feared another week of fungal rations. That was, until, one of them walked over and began speaking! It was a funny little fungoid that seemed to be wearing a turtle shell and carrying a walking stick.
"It's a walking mushroom. Should we kill it?" Derendil asked himself silently.
"Is it threatening us? Is it in our way?" Came the silky, feminine voice's reply in his mind.
"No. But it can talk. We should probably kill it."
There was a long silence before the voice returned. "Would it be proper for any elf, let alone one so noble as you, to cut down a tree that didn't fit in? Even one that walked and talked?"
Derendil thought for a long moment, before replying – this time in elvish. "No, of course not." He tucked the gleaming hilt back into his belt with a sigh. Letting go of the weapon, even feeling that it was firmly pressed to his side, caused him a bit of anxiety. This sword was an elven artifact that could see through his curse. He would not be letting her go any time soon.