Father Renathyr believes Duchess, the blade he keeps at his side, is sentient. The sword claims to be a divine tool bestowed by the Crimson Rose upon her champion so that he may cleanse the evil of this realm. Father Renathyr mutters to it constantly, both in response and unbidden, and has become addicted to heeding its commands.
In truth, it possesses no sentience of its own and is a conduit for Viraxys. She orchestrates Father Renathyr into committing acts of depraved cruelty to feed upon the tormented souls of those slaughtered by the Sanguine Hunt and burned alive by his Crimson Faithful. While she dines well upon the souls of the innocent, Renathyr remains her crowning achievement; it is no small joy for her to make someone fall, but to make someone as devoted as Renathyr fall is ecstasy.
The Duchess gleams with a crimson sheen along her razor edge, her hilt wrapped in supple leather stained by uncounted grips. Fine etchings of thorny roses coil up the fuller, pulsing faintly as if veins throb beneath the steel. She hums a low, insistent vibration against your palm, her weight balanced for swift, merciless arcs that part flesh like silk.