Halth

Qal'Deth wields Halth. When the Matron Mother sent a raiding party to the Duergar for pit slaves, they brought back a prize greater than they knew. The Druegar king was captured, and in exchange for his freedom, he forged Halth for Qar'tol, half minotaur, half drow champion and favorite slave of the House X'Larraz'et'soj. Halth was wielded by Qar'tol until his demise at the hand of Sarkoth, a minor noble of House Baenre. The sword was taken by House Baenre as spoils, and though those events led to the rise of X'Larraz'et'Soj, the loss of the champion's sword was keenly felt by the slaves raised from birth to be fighters in the pits. It had become an aspiration of many to one day earn the sword themselves. Together, the slaves conspired to return it to the house. The task was passed down from older fighters to younger for decades. The slaves learned much about the debts the other houses owed each other. The slaves who fought managed to manipulate the possessors of the blade through the decades. They did this most often by throwing fights, even lethal ones, but sometimes also by completing quests in unexpected ways, or by picking fights or instigating them between seemingly unrelated persons. The web of intrigue that led the sword back to X'Larraz'et'Soj touched every noble house. In the pits "to die for Halth" came to mean "To want something more than life". After manipulating the results of battles and betting, the pit slaves led the sword, which was infrequently used in fights, but also (though rarely) put up as huge betting stakes when the conclusion of a fight seemed foregone, and once to pay off a debt otherwise incurred in others, to a lethal battle in the pit of the House of Bastards between Drow settling a blood feud between Druu'giir, who now held the sword, and Baenre, who you remember once held it. The House Weapons Master turned a blind eye to the value of the sword when determining the entrance fee, thus allowing the Druu'giir noble Sharngarth to enter. Sharngarth had been mysteriously approached and told every weakness of his Baenre opponent, Paul'smiir, and had double and triple checked the information. Finding it good, he was confident of the outcome. Rumor spread, and odds were set well in favor of his winning. On the day of the battle, none of Sharngarth's attempts to exploit his opponent's weaknesses worked and the fully armored Baenre noble slew him, and took the sword, then, without collecting any favors disappeared, never to be heard from again. Only the slaves knew that Sharngarth's foe was not Paul'smiir, but their own champion, for just before the battle, they had captured, slain, and destroyed Paul'smiir and replaced him. The slaves keep this secret even from Matron Mother (but she knows, because the story is told in the fighting pits). Qal'Deth won the sword from the previous champion of the pits, Qot'shul, a half ogre, half drow who was only the champion for one fight, the one he lost to Qal'Deth, because his weapon proficiency only extended to a club.

Qal'Deth for all to see

Qal'Deth's Greatsword lay in a brightly colored scabbard.

"Half of the work of being a bodyguard is making sure you're noticed. It won't stop a dedicated assassin, but any opportunists will think twice."

His vest, his jacket, and his cloak hid a hundred pockets.

"The other half of the work is a surprise."

In each pocket was a pinch of this and that. Some twine, some cold iron, an eggshell, and a potion to darken the doorstep if an unwelcome Drow had crossed it. A book of verses describing the smells of various fungi. An empty silver stoppered flask. A dram of ale. A piece of dried meat. A ring of wood from the root of an old, old tree.

Most of them would never be useful. But one of them might, and so he carried them all.

Qhal'Deth who Bloodies

Qhal'Deth's fine shirt was torn and bloody, but his expression was satisfied. He walked at a measured pace across the pit towards his mother.
She shook her head.
A flicker of fear twitched at the corner of his eyes, but he turned towards the jagged cave that led under the stands.

He ignored the grunts and moans of a dozen fighting slaves with the practice of a dozen years in the pit. The guards barely glanced at him as he passed. He settled into his cell, decorated with wax sculptures and burnt herbs, and a near fortune's worth of individually worthless trinkets, trophies from each conquest.
Trying to think of nothing, Qhal'Deth stripped off his garments, and peered at the ring he had stripped from the mutilated body of his Orcish opponent. The ugly green of ill-tended copper, the ring was worth less that the hand that had worn it, had Qhal'Deth been given the right to a death fight. Today was Thirdday, though, and the stands were nearly empty. No sense wasting a death when so few were there to see it. It was a surprise even that mother had come. He'd hoped that meant she had an outing for him, but if she wouldn't speak to him in the stands, perhaps she was angry.
He bit his hand to drive away the fear.

MOTHER. He heard her swift footfalls before he saw her. When she came to the cells, no fighter didn't know it. The guards were silent and still always, but when she stepped in, even their breath was inaudible, even their hearts seemed to still. Qhal'Deth hid his bitten hand, folding it in the other on his lap, waiting like a noble overworld schoolboy politely expecting cake.

She came to his cell, the guard swinging Qhal'Deth's cell door open so that she didn't miss a stride. MOTHER. Mother took Qhal'Deth's giant head in her hands and pressed it to her bosom. She sang

      Far away the light of wrong
     Far away their doubt
    For someplace She gusts
     Closer now the right of strong
    Closer now be stout
   For Mother of Lusts

Qhal'Deth, now inexplicably sleepy, laid his head in her lap.

Mother murmured, "Tomorrow everything changes, dear."