Honed Dredge Bonehewer

Honed Dredge Bonehewer sits on a worn velvet cloth, its blade a ribbon of obsidian steel that gleams with frost-tinted luster. Veins of pale dredge bone are inlaid along the edge like fossilized rivers, catching the light and throwing it back in pale shards. The hilt is wrapped in stitched leather, cool to the touch, with a bone-carved guard etched with sigils that resemble the slow tunnels of the underworld. A fragment of dredge skull is set at the pommel, smooth from centuries of contact, and the whole thing whispers of earth and mineral dust. When you lift it, the weight sits in your palm with patient readiness, as if the blade were listening for a distant call across bone-filled catacombs. Legends say this blade was carved by a master of dredge bonecraft, a smith who learned to coax marrow from stone and bind it to steel. They say the Honed Dredge Bonehewer remembers its first breaths in the earthen cathedrals beneath the world, where bone-hewn altars glow with ember-soft light. Warriors who carried it learned to read the stone's memory, to strike in rhythms that echo the dredge's tunneling seasons. In stories told by campfires, it is not merely a weapon but a key—a way to coax secrets from ossified caches, to pry open doors that close behind you with a sigh of dust and silence. To this day, relic-hunters and deep-miners speak of it as a blade that favors patient hands and bold, decisive cuts, as if the dredge themselves had tempered it with their own endurance. On the battlefield, its true power is subtle: it slides through bone and shield alike, scoring bleeds and triggering a hidden sigil that drains a fragment of an enemy's vitality while feeding your own. Not flashy, but dependable, it turns tight skirmishes into controlled exchanges, where each strike whispers a little more of the underworld's memory. Hunters report that in the right hands it unlocks a brief window of bone-sight, moments when enemies' defenses crack and reveal their skeletal joints—perfect for a coordinated strike with a companion who knows where to hit. For crafters, the blade is a reminder that tools bear histories, and that the world favors those who listen to the land's bones as much as to its living things. Market talk flows around it as it does around any prized relic. Traders passing through the Maw's edge or near the river stalls would barter the Bonehewer for rare woods or sigils, but at Saddlebag Exchange the price tends to settle around two gold and a clutch of silver, with a curated memento added if a buyer pushes a little further. The seller, a hawk-nosed collector named Larin, would add caution: the blade remembers its owners, and only those who walk the tunnels with patience will hear the right whispers. If a buyer earns its trust, the Bonehewer begins a new chapter in its slow, patient life. Somewhere in a quiet workshop, a new owner hears its quiet vow and smiles.