Mending Zweihänder of Smoldering

The Mending Zweihänder of Smoldering sits on a carved pedestal in the corner of the shop, its blade long enough to bend the air into a line when you swing it, and the metal is a cool, obsidian-black that hums with a living warmth. Coppery veins braid the steel like veins of heat in a stone, and chips along the edge catch the light as if the blade itself remembers every spark it has ever drawn. A wing-shaped guard arches above a grip wrapped in charcoal-tanned leather, smelling faintly of smoke and old rain, while the pommel hides a tiny ember that glows brighter when the hammer’s memory stirs within. The runes along the fuller glow with a patient orange, not enough to blaze, only enough to remind its bearer that heat can mend what was torn, not burn what it loves. Lore says the sword was tempered by the Menders’ Circle, a band of artisans and healers who learned to coax lifeblood back into broken metal and broken people alike. They believed that every strike could stitch a wound in the world, and this blade, forged in a forge where fire met mercy, embodies that belief. It carries a whisper of ash and a memory of flames that once swallowed a battlefield, yet refused to consume the hands that wielded it. When you hold it, you feel the blade’s patient pulse like a heartbeat you’re afraid to interrupt—an invitation to fight with restraint, to let heat do more than cut. In the arena of combat, the Zweihänder’s true gift reveals itself not in showy cleaves but in quiet restoration. With each swing, a soft glow crawls along the edge and outward, stitching minor cuts in the air and lending a hand to the weary. The Mending enchantment sends a gentle, healing tether to the wielder and to nearby allies, a reminder that strength is not only the power to harm but the grace to repair quickly. The Smoldering facet, by contrast, breathes a steady warmth into the fight, a line of flame that scorches enemies who dare press too close while shielding comrades from fear and frost. It makes a frontline dancer out of the bearer: a steadfast presence who holds the line, mends the gaps in the team’s defenses, and lets healers breathe a little easier between breathless flurries. Prices drift through the open market like embers in a draft, traded as a story as much as a blade. Travelers speak of the Mending Zweihänder of Smoldering in hushed tones, noting its rarity and the way its glow changes with the mood of the wielder. In a bustling stall of the Saddlebag Exchange, a veteran merchant once measured its worth against a handful of rare mats and a promise of ongoing repair contracts, finally quoting a premium that reflected not just metal but memory. The price, they say, is as much about what the sword carries forward for the world as what it costs to own it. So the weapon travels, not merely as steel but as a tale of healing forged into metal. It binds the art of mending to the ruthless mathematics of war, a reminder that every great sword can become a lifeline if a keeper understands when to swing, when to heal, and when to let the ember smolder just enough to warm a world that’s always on the edge of frost.