ELEVEN THREE NAMES

 Three times it wield Excalibur,

and through the air it gleamed.

Then to waters black it sank,

no more to be seen.

    No weapon quite has the same mystique as the sword, but so often they're bogged down with lame or overdramatic names. Such is not the problem with THREE WORD NAMES. 3 is an auspicious number, and such spiritual power will add much-needed weight to your weapons' blows.

Pale, Chardun, Bronte, Ossgold, and Adamant are not my creation. Look for it as you must, for I refuse to give context nor clemency to you.

FOG BEFORE SUNRISE: He is a large claymore of adamant. The blade is cracked and nicked, and whatever he tries to say is drowned out in a wordless rasp. His blade dirties water and makes wounds fester. Those who lick it contract leprosy, and can take a template in that class if they so choose. Kept in the treausure vault of a dead king.

SLOUCHES TOWARDS BIRTH: She is a light blakas of bronte. She whispers blasphemies against the g_ds, and thinks it a game, to rile up those of faith. Living things cut by her bleed far more than should be  possible. They don't bleed out any quicker, but everything nearby is left soaked and slick. Other things scratched by her slowly weep honey. Lies buried in a shallow grave.

VELOCITY DESIGN COMFORT: They are a medium shashka of bronte. Their blade is thick and has small holes in it, and the guard is wrapped with multiple strings. It can be played as a flute, and the strings can unwind and be held taught to produce harplike sounds (the bronte bonus applies when playing it). They serve as a centerpiece to the nest of a dire magpie.

DIVINITY OF TEETH: She is a +1 superlative sword of adamant. A quiet, hateful thing. Her name is carved in large, crude letters wrapping around the grip, and the "point" of the blade is flat and square. While drawn, metal within 20 feet of her twists and warps violently. Currently lodged between two rocks in the deadliest, most inhospitable part of your setting.

SEXLESS HYDROGEN CLOUD: She is a medium dao of ossgold. Her name is inscribed along the flat of her blade in tiny letters, repeating over and over. She sparks greatly when struck with a flint, and fires lit with her burn long, hot, and bright. Is pinning a squirming zombie to a tree and is very unhappy about it.

DEEP TIME BRIDGE: He is a light kris of pale. He speaks in nonsense riddles and koans, and his blade gleams with cold star-light. Whoever holds it no longer needs to breathe. This served his former owner well, on the trek up the summit for sky burial.

SEVEN SEVEN ANGELS: She is a medium paramerion of ossgold. Her hilt and blade are decorated with brass laurels. Stern and formal. The movement of her blade dampens sound; when violently waved about, the area in a 30ft radius becomes completely silent. Works as the baton for a very avant-garde conductor. 

MEDITATION PRACTICES DEATH: They are a medium makhaira of ossgold and chardun. Worked into the metal is the ashes of a priest, and the sheath is specially made to keep the sword immersed with anointing oil. Prick your tongue with the blade, and whenever it goes out of sight, you can call it back to your hand by reciting its name. Held in the hand of a statue at a monastery. 

I SOFTLY CARESS: She is a medium gladius of pale and bronte. Her blade is polished to a mirror sheen, and she is highly adverse to fighting. Spirits of all kinds can faintly sense the blade, and will become curious about it. They, even the invisible ones, can be seen in the sword's reflection. She sits on a mossy stump in a quiet forest grove.

A LIGHT GREEN: He is a medium Oakeshott XV of chardun and bronte. His pommel and rain-guard are bronze, and engraved with scenes of nobles hunting game. His touch turns water to ice, ice to steam, and steam to water. Is stuck in a lake, floating and sinking as the phases of water around it rapidly change.

BLACK BARGE SAILS: He is a medium longsword of pale and adamant. He is unadorned of any decorations. When thrust into the ground, flowers bloom around him, and any fighting within 15ft of him hurts as if you struck yourself with your blow. Gripped in the hands of a nameless soldier, on some windswept battlefield.