The tomb is ancient, the grave, according to local legend, of a prince of the Ellfolk who was a master of the iron sword. Some folk tales say the sword was the prince's wife, one of the shape-shifting fey. If he was wounded, the sword danced above him to protect him, but she could not parry the death that found him, when he drowned crossing a river in a raid.
The place is called Tomb of Swords, and untold adventurers have gone down into the dark, seeking that enchanted blade, and few have returned. Now, the lord's youngest son has gone missing in the same place.
A pair of quarrelsome gargs are camped in the passageway under the standing stones, but they are mere vagrants, newly arrived, and have no interest in the deeps of the tomb.
Beyond them are the outer chambers. Patient adventurers, searching carefully, will find exquisite mosaics, scenes from the prince's life: the hero fighting the enemies of his clan; the hero drinking from the cup of peace when the battle is over; the hero and his sword-wife; the grieving fey laying him in the tomb with sword, helm, and shield, and a golden cup.
The horror lurks in the inner tomb. Every sword, every hero that ever perished in the tomb, takes the form of a roiling, black mass of dust and bone, grasping a hundred corroded swords. Mad, red eyes sometimes wink in the cloud. The sword-ghost cannot be harmed and will never relent. It is possible to parry the rain of blows with sword and shield, and the ghost will not pursue those who flee beyond sight to the standing stone.
The sword-ghost will not attack any mortal with empty hands.
Only one of the Druit gods could defeat this thing in battle or dismiss it by magic. But if a mortal could find the cup of peace and offer a draught from it, then perhaps the many tortured spirits trapped here could be freed.
