Born into this life unlike other beasts of this world, the Lost Blades are a union of flesh, steel, and spirit. When a sword is lost deep in the woods, given enough time, it begins to grow.
At the base of the blade, the sword will begin to swell. Slowly, a gnarl of meat will curl, pushing the blade from the hilt as the fetal ferrum monoceros develops. Eventually, the fetus’ tail will ensnare the tang of the blade - the metal core running through the weapons handle - separating it from the blade itself. At that central point, where the hilt meets the blade, the body of the animal forms.
Cloven hooves, skin marbled and engraved, a wiry and unkempt mane. In time, the hilt of the weapon will split apart as the creature's tail grows in size, but younger blades tend to still have their hilts intact at the base of their tails. Throughout their lifetime, more of the original weapon is shed, but even mature specimens still show remnants of leather handle wraps and pommel ornamentation clinging to their whip-like tails.
The magic that births these beasts dwells deep in the place of forgotten things, of lost socks and misplaced keys. There are many things that could produce a lost blade. A pebble underneath the wheel of a wagon, jostling a blacksmith’s produce onto the road. A brave hero’s last stand, outnumbered in unfamiliar territory. A mother and her child, frightened, armed, chased by all the things that might lurk in the shadows.
Perhaps they were left behind by those who felt safe enough to lay their weapons down, finally at rest. Nothing more that might harm them, nothing left to fear. Who knows whether the lost ones remember the hands that once held them, the lives they might have protected, and the lives they might have cut short.
