Honed Steel Greatsword rests on a rough oak table, its blade catching lamp light like a shard of winter sun. The steel is cool and even, a blue-gray sheen that seems to drink the room’s warmth and spit it back in small glittering motes. The edge is merciless, a single, keen bevel that promises obedience. A shallow fuller runs nearly the length of the blade, catching dust motes and turning them into tiny stars when a lantern sighs overhead. The guard fans into slender quillons, sculpted with quiet precision, and the grip is wrapped in worn leather that has the oil of many hands worked into its grain. The whole thing feels tempered with patience, a blade that would rather wait than waste a chance to cut true in the moment of need. On the ricasso are a couple of runes, the mark of a master smith whose name has faded into legend. Some say the blade learned its temper in the ash-blue fires of a long-vanished forge, others that it remembers the clash of armor and the shouts of a caravan guard. There is no certain origin that can be proven, only the echo you carry when you lift it. Yet the Honed Steel Greatsword seems to insist on its own story: a weapon crafted to cut a path through doubt as much as through foes, to leave a clean line in the smoke of a skirmish. Into gameplay terms, it feels like more than a tool; it feels like a declaration. A two-handed swing can carve a circle through a squad, close a gap in your formation, or topple a charging foe whose momentum would otherwise carry your line into disarray. Its weight is generous but not unwieldy, forgiving a missed block and rewarding a precise, practiced rhythm. The blade’s lore makes it a magnet for players who want a tangible artifact behind the actions on the screen—one that you can imagine you earned after a long quest, tested in narrow alleys and wide plains alike. In the market that snakes through the river district, traders clutter the stalls with wares and stories, and the Saddlebag Exchange sits like a ledger brought to life. A Honed Steel Greatsword will fetch a price that tests a traveler’s purse—enough to sparkle in gold coins, enough to tempt a careful buyer into a willingness to barter. The talk is that the blade’s worth isn’t just in the steel but in the journeys it has witnessed; the seller might offer a tale with the deal, and the buyer, in turn, a promise to carry it into the next skirmish. It’s a cycle of trust as much as value, and the blade travels from hand to hand with the same quiet inevitability as a rumor passing from market to market. By nightfall, the Honed Steel Greatsword rests again on the table, settled into its patina of use. It waits for a new dawn, when its edge will meet the air and cut through doubt as decisively as it cuts through armor. In that moment, the blade stops being metal and becomes a story you live through every swing.