Like small threads on a tapestry, the time of mortals has been brief in the land of Althania. If one were to step back from this small point in time, and gaze at the needlework before it, they would find a long and dark history.
There was once a time where the planes existed as one, and war raged. Between the astral Starkyn and the ancient Daemons that were born with this world. In this time, the tides of bloodshed rose and fell, just as the shadows and light rose up against one another.
In this time, a sword of particular note was forged. Created in the deep recesses of the Zaerokian plan, it was created with the malice and blood of an Ancient One. Tempered in a pool of all the planes, it was created with a two-edged design.
Driven into the flesh of a Starkyn, it would create a near inconsolable rift. It would divide them from the light, rendering them nothing more than mortal. By this, the tides of shadow could easily engulf and sink them to final death.
But the blade was was no friend to the Daemon that wielded it. As he came to battle against a little Starkyn, he found the bitter bite of this guile blade. Severing the Starkyn from her lofted plane, he boasted of his final blow before delivering it. In this, he gave this little one just the moment she needed. Seizing the blade, the Starkyn turned the sword upon its owner and struck him with it.
Instantly, that chill feeling of isolation came over the Daemon. He soon realized that the blade held no allegiance, and had torn him from his plane as well. With a scream, the Daemon met the horror of final death, and was lost to the waves of shadow.
This little Starkyn was now faced with a choice. What would she do with a blade such as this? Soaked in the blood of all planes, and crafted to end a war.
Making her choice, the Starkyn cast the blade into a Nyhian rift. In doing so, the blade was lost the ever changing, and collecting flow of the Nyhian plane. There it lay, for eons. Cast among the rubble, and forgotten pieces of time and memory. It drifted upon these tides, until even its very name was lost to all memory, save the ancient.
As fate would have it, a day came that it was found. A young daemon hunter, newly cast with his Nyhian counterparts, found the blade in the rubble of a forgotten village. The beautifully ornate hilt caught his eye, the sparkle of a fiery opal. He, and the voices, agreed that this blade held a great power. For what, they could not say, but whispers of relics such as this were known to exist in the forgotten parts of the Planes.
And so, Leoht-Bana entered the mortal plane upon the back of an unknowing mortal. Its purpose a mystery, abstract in its strange nature.
In the hands of a Daemon Hunter, it held the potential of ruin for those who would carve their scars upon the mortal plane. But Leoht-Bana never became a sword of renown, it fell away into the cracks of history once more. Just as the Daemon Hunters fell away from knowledge during The Great War.
Where is the Light Slayer now? A frightful prospect to think of it lost, adrift, on the mortal plane.