Greatsword

Greatsword sits on the table, a long blade of midnight steel catching the torchlight and throwing it back in a thousand razor-edged glints. The edge is broad and honest, tempered to a pale blue sheen that seems to hum when the room grows quiet. Along the fuller a ribbon of runes crawls in faint, silvered lines, as if the metal itself learned to remember. The guard curves like a crescent moon, pragmatic and gleaming, and the grip shows the patina of countless campaigns: the wood wrapped in worn leather, the lacquer chipped where fingers would not let go. The pommel bears a faded emblem—a guild mark, a sigil of a field captain, or perhaps a memory pressed into metal by a smith with a story to tell. It feels heavy in the hand, almost heavier with expectation, as if the blade weighs not just metal but the footsteps of every warrior who carried it before. From the moment it is drawn, the Greatsword feels bound to a wider journey. Its lore threads through blackened forges and mountain camps, whispered in taverns about a blade that cut a path through sieges and storms. Tales insist it was tempered in a furnace lit by pact-born banners, then tempered again by the blades of veterans who learned to pace their strikes rather than rush the storm. Those stories linger in the scuffed leather and the faint echo of a blessing spoken over its spine, a reminder that a weapon is as much a witness as a tool. When the field widens and the shield wall shifts, the Greatsword proves its worth. It is designed for movement and momentum, sweeping arcs that carve through crowds and set up the next, sharper moment. In combat it demands rhythm: a tester of tempo, a hammer of timing. A skilled wielder can knock back foes with wide, ground-shaking slashes, then surge forward to finish with a rupturing blow that shatters their stance and clears a lane for allies to move through. It shines in chokepoints and open arenas alike, turning the tide as much by intimidation as by raw power, its roars answered by the heartbeat of the party and the drum of distant drums in the camp. The blade also carries a quiet, practical note—paired with the right runes and signs, those heavy strikes become a bridge to vitality, granting lifeblood through ferocious, measured blows when a healer is stretched thin. On market benches outside the gate, the Saddlebag Exchange flips coins and stories in the same breath. A blade like this shifts hands for a price—gold, barter and memories. I watched a trader tighten the leather thong on the grip and name three gold pieces for a Greatsword, perhaps more if a blessing rode with it. The crowd murmured, candlelight danced, and the price curled like smoke as another customer bargained hard. It’s the same market that feeds the camp, where a clean blade can be swapped for a tale told in a bustling tavern.