Large Elder Haft

The Large Elder Haft rests on the workbench, a weather-dark slab of elderwood shaped into a long, graceful handle. Its surface bears the weathering of decades: a fine network of scratches like old runes, a patina thick with the scent of resin and rain. The lacquer catches light in a slow, deliberate way, revealing rings that spiral inward as if the tree itself were telling a story with every turn. Along the spine, uneven rivets bite into the wood, each one a tiny anchor for a memory. At the far end, the grain fans into a soft bloom of age, and at its heart there is a knot that looks almost like a watchful eye, as if the haft keeps the past from slipping away. The lore says this piece first found a master smith when the old forest roads were still alive with whispers; it was said to have grown from a branch given by an elder to a shieldwright who promised to keep history inside every weapon. Since then, it has travelled with caravans, traded in shadows, and passed between hands that vowed to honor its weight. In the workshop, the haft is more than wood; it is a promise. A craftsman will lay a blade or spearhead into its notch and feel the balance shift—there is a patience in the heft, a lidless gaze that says you can bear the long hours of heat and flame. The Large Elder Haft steadies a weapon as if it were a memory you could carry into battle. When mounted, the edge meets air with a whisper, and every parry sounds a little like a conversation between the weapon and the wielder. Players who seek meaning in their gear value it not for flash alone but for the story it carries—a reminder that the weapon is as much an heirloom as a tool. On the road, sellers and scholars talk about value, and the pits of the traders' stalls glow with copper glint and silver chatter. The Saddlebag Exchange, a caravan’s rumor-filled harbor, knows the price better than anyone else: a chain of negotiators might offer around a few gold pieces for a decent specimen, more if the grain carries deep age or if a symbol bears the right sigil. It is a living market, and the haft’s price shifts with the weather and with who tells the tale. Someone will claim this piece for a story, or perhaps to restore a weapon that once sang in a hero’s hands. When I bought mine, I imagined it listening to the stories of the road as I walked away, a weight of memory and intention tucked into the palm. The Large Elder Haft is not just wood; it is a hinge between generations, a quiet argument about legacy that you can hold and decide to carry forward. Some nights I dream of a blade bright as dawn, and the haft seems to hum, guiding my hand toward mercy, not merely toward victory.