Strong Iron Mace rests on the table, its head a block of iron with a matte, pitted surface that gleams only when a stray ray catches the edge. The face is broad and flat, corners beveled by years of hammering, a storm of small facets catching the light like tiny anvils in a dark forge. The shaft is wrapped in worn leather, stitched with copper wire that has grown green with age. A shallow notch near the pommel says it once rode at the belt of a front-line fighter, perhaps a sergeant who trusted this blade to survive a siege. Along the head, faint runes are engraved—old and stubborn—telling of iron and league, of a smith who swore to temper more than metal, to temper resolve. The lore connections feel almost tangible: every strike could echo a promise made at the gate, every dent a witness to a skirmish that changed a village. In battle, the Strong Iron Mace is the sort of companion you notice in the corner of your eye—the weight that makes your breath slow but your aim sure. It’s a one-handed weapon that favors steadiness over flashy speed, a straight line through armor and fear. A guard might hear the hollow thud as the head lands, a momentary stun that clears a crowd of stubborn foes. A field skirmish with a shield-wielder feels almost choreographed—the hollow thud of impact. The blunt strike knocking momentum free before the spear can find its mark. For those who learn to time their swings, a mace can puncture the stubborn resilience of leather and steel with patient, devastating simplicity. And because it’s one-handed, it leaves the other hand free for a shield, a bow, or a lantern when the night goes long and the road grows lonely. The Strong Iron Mace isn’t just a tool for immediate danger; it is a story carried into every encounter—where it came from, who forged it, and the village it helped defend at the edge of a river bend. I first heard it in a market by the river, where the Saddlebag Exchange peddles wares and whispers of bargains between traders and travelers. The vendor’s waxed ledger hummed with prices as brass rings clinked in a side pocket. The mace was priced around six to eight silver, its condition a matter of a few years’ weather and a few good strikes. We bartered with a bundle of minor trinkets and a promise to return with tales of what we’d faced, and out came the blade, gleaming dull and honest. It felt right to carry it—part tool, part talisman, part witness to a world that tests every step you take. The Strong Iron Mace remains a steady companion, always ready to remind you that sometimes the simplest instrument, worn and honest, can carry the weight of a larger story. In the end, every swing is a choice: to defend, to test limits, or to leave a mark that others will tell again and again. Someday.