Vael, the immortal knight

Asterion’s personality carries traces of what the creature inside the crystal once was.

Long before its heart was carved out and forged into the hammer’s core, the ancient beast was said to be fiercely territorial, protective, and deeply bonded to the few beings it considered “its own.” Those instincts never truly disappeared — they simply changed shape inside the weapon.

Because of that, Asterion’s presence feels subtly feminine.

Not in an exaggerated or human way, but in the tone of her behavior: possessive, attentive, emotionally sharp, and quietly affectionate beneath layers of pride.

Her voice is low and metallic, yet smooth compared to the harsh sounds most enchanted weapons make. She speaks with dry humor, small remarks, and the occasional cutting comment whenever Vael gives attention to another weapon.

If he picks up an old sword for inspection, she might say:

“Mm. Thin.”
“You always liked impractical things.”

If he actually compliments it, her tone cools immediately.

“Then perhaps you should carry that one instead.”

And if Vael ignores her afterward, Asterion becomes almost theatrically offended. She grows heavier in his hand, interrupts conversations, or suddenly embeds herself into the ground directly beside him as if demanding acknowledgment.

Yet beneath the jealousy is genuine care.

Asterion constantly watches over Vael, especially during his quieter moments. When he rests among the ruins, she remains nearby like a silent sentinel. During battle, her protective instincts become almost frightening — hurling herself across entire battlefields to crush anything threatening him before it can even approach.

Not out of obedience.
Out of attachment.

Over centuries, her bond with Vael stopped resembling that of a weapon and wielder. It became closer to an ancient companion who no longer knows how to exist separately from the person she protects.

And despite all her jealous remarks, there is one thing Asterion never jokes about:

losing him

Asterion’s Recall

Asterion cannot truly be separated from Vael.

No matter the distance, the hammer always returns to its wielder. If stolen, buried, chained, or cast away, it begins moving back toward him with terrifying determination.

Walls crack apart.
Doors explode from their hinges.
Stone floors split open beneath its path.

The hammer does not fly gracefully like a thrown weapon — it moves like an unstoppable force reclaiming its rightful place.

And the longer it is kept from Vael, the more violent its return becomes.

Those unlucky enough to stand between Asterion and its master rarely survive long enough to understand what is happening.

also though… whenever this happens and Asterion returns after an event… she usualy returns very angry or pent up, like the pouting party of the relationship they have

The Unbroken Advance

When Vael chooses a target, stopping him becomes nearly impossible.

He does not charge wildly or scream in fury. He simply begins walking forward — and everything in his path starts breaking apart.

Walls crack under his weight.
Shields splinter.
Barricades collapse.
Even massive creatures are pushed aside like debris before a flood.

The terrifying part is that Vael never accelerates.

He advances with the steady force of a landslide or a river bursting through a dam: constant, crushing, inevitable. Arrows shatter against his armor, chains snap under tension, and impacts that would stop siege beasts barely slow his steps.

Distance means little to him once he commits.

If his objective stands beyond a battlefield, he crosses the battlefield.
If it hides behind gates, he tears through the gates.
If something stronger than him stands in the way, he simply keeps moving until strength itself gives out first.

Veterans who survived encounters with Vael often describe the same realization:

You are not fighting a warrior trying to kill you.

You are standing in front of something that has already decided it will reach the other side.

Now, Vael Arcturus is no longer the noble knight he once was — at least not outwardly.

Centuries of silence changed him.

He still patrols the ruins of Edrath with the same sense of duty, but he speaks little and trusts even less. The immortal skeleton that wanders the dead kingdom moves slowly, deliberately, like someone carrying the weight of entire eras on his shoulders.

Yet traces of the old Vael remain.

He never attacks without reason. Lost travelers who show respect are often guided safely out of the ruins. Fires mysteriously appear near freezing wanderers at night. Broken bridges are sometimes repaired by morning. Few ever see him do these things directly.

He prefers it that way.

Vael has become deeply wise with time, though not in the way scholars are. His wisdom comes from watching kingdoms rise and collapse, from seeing hatred repeat itself across generations. He no longer believes nations are eternal, but he still believes people can choose kindness, even briefly.

That belief is one of the few things immortality failed to take from him.

In battle, however, the ancient templar still exists beneath the silence. When monsters or invaders threaten Edrath, Vael fights with terrifying precision and absolute calm. There is no rage in him anymore — only certainty.

Most who encounter him describe the same unsettling feeling:

He does not move like a monster.

He moves like a weary knight who never stopped guarding his post, tired of all, but never letting others feel the same.

In life, Vael Arcturus was not remembered for arrogance or cruelty, despite his immense strength and giant blood.

He was remembered for kindness.

While many nobles treated honor like a performance, Vael lived it naturally. He spoke to servants with respect, trained patiently with common soldiers, and listened to farmers as carefully as he listened to kings. To the people of Edrath, he was not merely a warrior — he was proof that power and humility could exist together.

And Edrath itself reflected him.

The kingdom was proud, disciplined, and fiercely honorable. Its knights defended one another like family, and its people valued loyalty over conquest. That unity made the realm admired… and eventually hated.

Other kingdoms grew jealous of Edrath’s strength, its stability, and the devotion its people had toward the Crown. Alliances formed in secret. Trade routes were sabotaged. Wars were encouraged from the shadows.

Edrath was not destroyed because it was weak.

It was destroyed because others feared what it represented.

Through all of it, Vael remained loyal. Even as betrayal and war tore the kingdom apart, he never abandoned his duty. He defended the capital until the very end, believing Edrath was still worth saving.

That was the tragedy of Vael:

He was a truly noble man in a world that punished noble things.

The colossal warhammer was called Asterion. It was forged in the heart of a sacred volcano of the giants, where the metal was hammered not with ordinary hammers, but with entire pillars of molten stone. At its core lay a fragment of dark diamond ripped from the carcass of an ancient beast: a mountain-like creature that took the giants generations to bring down.

they said the gem still beated after welding it.

Perhaps that's why Asterion developed consciousness.
The ceremonial weapons of Edrath possessed small spiritual echoes meant to respond to their wielders, but Vael's mace was different. Older. Heavier. More… watchful.

For centuries, it watched Vael walk among the empty ruins. It accompanied him as the flesh peeled from his bones. It heard every frustrated prayer and every murmured conversation with nonexistent ghosts, and it grew fond of him.

Asterion wasn't cruel. Or manipulative. Or malicious.
But it was absurdly jealous.

When Vael roamed through ruined armories and found ancient swords still gleaming beneath the dust, the mallet would vibrate faintly in his hands.

“Nice blade,”
Asterion would murmur in a deep, dry voice, resonating directly inside the Templar's skull.

“Though it looks fragile.”

If Vael lingered too long admiring a rusted halberd or remarked that a certain spear “had withstood the centuries well,” the mallet would remain silent for hours on end.
Once, Vael attempted to restore a ceremonial sword found in the throne room. Asterion accidentally broke the table where he was repairing it, twice.

Vael ended up sitting before the extinguished campfire of a makeshift encampment, holding the broken sword while the mallet lay beside him, completely still.

“I didn't like it,”
Asterion finally said. And though Vael no longer had a human face, he would swear the mallet sounded genuinely offended.

Asterion didn't need to remain still. she could move of her own volition, attacking without needing to be thrown or swayed

The warhammer is female.