Shaman's Norn Greatsword of Corruption

Shaman's Norn Greatsword of Corruption rests on a wind-worn counter, a sight that halts even smiths in mid-swing. The blade is midnight obsidian, so dark it drinks light and answers with a cold glint when the candle flame catches its edge. Along the fuller, etched runes twist like frost-colored roots, while two carved wolves crown the guard as if to guard the road the weapon intends to walk. The grip is wrapped in tanned hide, stitched with sinew, and a single bead of bone dangles from the pommel, catching every flicker of light. A thin film of dusk oil smooths the surface, not slick but alive, as if the steel remembered every battle it has ever seen. Lore insists the weapon was forged by a northern Shaman who walked between storms and spirits, and that its corruption is a pact: power given only to those who can bear the whispering shadows it carries, a gift that can turn into a curse if misread. In hands, the sword reshapes the tempo of a fight. It does not rush the room; it dominates it. With each two-handed swing, the blade leeches a fragment of health from those struck and pours it back into the wielder, not in glittering recovery alone but as a strengthening of will, a renewing of stance at the edge of risk. The corruption it channels swirls outward in a muted halo, tainting enemies with a creeping debuff and making nearby allies feel briefly steadier, as if the world itself steadied to meet the user’s resolve. Practized hands learn to weave its power into a larger story: open the line with a brutal cleave, seed the field with a chorus of corruption, then end with a sweeping, storm-bruised strike that leaves foes cowering or broken. It favors those who balance appetite with restraint, for the blade feeds on but never overwhelms—until the moment when the taint culminates in a surge that reshapes the battleground and writes a new chapter for whoever holds it. The price of such power, of course, tides through the market as surely as the river through the valley. In the bustling lanes where Saddlebag Exchange houses its traders—a caravan market that travels from outposts to towns—the Shaman’s Norn Greatsword of Corruption finds its way into a glass display, watched by eyes that reflect both desire and caution. A day’s negotiation might begin at around one gold and forty silver, with negotiators trading stories of clan raids and frost-worn marches, and end with a deal that glitters with the promise of terrible control. The seller speaks in hushed, almost reverent tones about a chieftain who wore the blade to steady a fortress besieged by storms, while the buyer imagines a future where every strike writes a line in the saga of the world’s turning. And as the coins change hands, the weapon’s echo lingers: a memory of corruption tempered by honor, a blade that could shape a story as big as the mountains themselves. Some who have wielded it swear the blade speaks in quiet nouns—the names of places, the weather, a pause in a battle—that guide the wearer toward a fate bigger than any single fight. But power, as the old tales remind, always asks a price: a longer road, and a sharper conscience. In the end, the sword is not just steel but a story you decide to tell with every swing.