Carrion Mithril Greatsword

Carrion Mithril Greatsword rests on a faded velvet cloth, the blade a pale, almost luminescent grey that seems to drink the light rather than reflect it. The mithril threads weave like frost along the flat of the steel, fine and glimmering, and the edge holds a whispering keen that hints at a past when smiths argued with heat and fate to temper resolve into weapon. The spine is rough with bone-like ridges, as if a ribcage had been fused into the metal, each knuckle and spur catching your finger as you run it along the broad curve. The crossguard arches in a skeletal crescent, while the grip, wrapped in worn leather, bears the patina of long journeys. A small skull pommel stares sightlessly outward, its eye sockets etched with runes that pulse faintly when moonlight slides over the blade. When you lift it, the sword sighs—weight meeting will in a single, almost reluctant moment—and you can feel the world tilt just a touch toward night and memory. Legends whisper that the Carrion Mithril Greatsword is the product of a forbidden alliance between a master smith and a scavenger necromancer, a pairing born of necessity and curiosity in a place where death feeds the living’s ambition. The ore itself was said to come from a vein that appeared after a battlefield sunken in its own stories, a site where the carrion birds crowded like dark constellations above the fallen. The weapon’s mouth-watering contrast of soft bone and hard metal makes it feel not just forged but grown, as if the earth itself pressed its whispering verdict into the blade. In the mouths of taverns and market stalls, people say the blade remembers the ground it walked, turning sorrow into a patient, cutting calm for whoever bears it. In play, it feels like a tale wearing armor: a two-handed swing that drags a thunderous arc through armor and bare flesh, a momentum that makes even veteran opponents stagger if you catch them before they recover. The weapon’s aura—subtle, necrotic, almost a ghost of a breath—seems to harmonize with skills that drain a portion of an enemy’s vitality to restore the wielder’s vigor. It rewards patience and precision, not only raw strength, because a clean strike can unlock a lingering shimmer of life-steal that travels along the arm to a rider’s chest. Put simply, this blade makes you feel like a storyteller—one whose words are steel, whose sentences end in a cleave, and whose ending is the quiet, inevitable eviction of the enemy from the scene. Market days drift along with the clatter of carts and the murmur of traders, and the Carrion Mithril Greatsword often appears in the hands of those who crave knowledge as much as power. I’ve watched it pass through the stalls of Saddlebag Exchange, a roving trove of trinkets and traded glories that moves between towns as surely as dusk. A negotiator with quick hands and quicker eyes slides the blade into a cloth cover, then into a crate marked with a simple symbol and a word that carries weight in this world: price. The tag is never simple, because the sword’s legend makes negotiators bend toward generosity or calculation depending on who leans close enough to speak. A buyer’s patience and a seller’s grit are as much a part of the sword’s value as the metal and bone. So it endures, a weapon and a story intertwined: a relic of craft, a reminder of markets that breathe with caravans and bargains, and a blade that cuts through more than armor—through fear, through doubt, through the quiet of night itself.