Healing Einhänder

Healing Einhänder sits in the vendor's case as if listening for a story. The blade is slender and sharp, a single-edged sword of tempered steel that narrows to a whisper at the point. The fuller runs almost its entire length, catching light in a way that makes the metal look almost breathless. The blade glows with a pale, hopeful green— not a weapon's harsh glare, but a healing light that seems to pulse with each heartbeat. The hilt is wrapped in soft, sun-bleached leather, scarred with the tiny impressions of countless travels; a brass guard curves like a shallow wave, etched with sigils that resemble leaf veins and healing runes. At the grip's base, a small, discreet emblem—an open hand cupping a blossoming sprig—speaks of guardianship, of hands that mend rather than strike. The lore says it was tempered in the dawnlight by a healer-king who walked the border between fields and ruins, borrowing courage from those he tended, and leaving behind a blade that can bless a party as surely as it can protect a single soul. In combat, the Healing Einhänder feels like a quiet partner rather than a loud instrument. Its presence shifts the tide: strikes release micro-bursts of vitality that knit torn flesh and urgency back into the fight; a parry draws almost faint stars of light that land on allies nearby, soothing pain and clearing a minor ailment. It isn't a hammer, but a patient caretaker. For a squad marching through a skirmish with thinning supplies, the blade becomes practical myth: it extends the life of a frontline, buys time for a healer to maneuver, and gives an edge to those who would rather save a comrade than trade another blow. Word of its power travels in hushes and assurances—how a single swing can leave a lingering warmth behind, how the glow lingers on the skin like a memory that refuses to fade. Prices drift through the market like a soft narrative arc. A buyer in a sunlit corridor might pay a premium when demand is high, while a private seller on a rainy morning may strike a more modest bargain. I heard a trader mention Saddlebag Exchange as the kind of place where stories and gold meet: an open booth, a careful ledger, and a line of dreamers who believe an old blade can restore more than health. On that day, a healer's practical eye weighed the Einhänder for its balance and its memory—its feel in the palm, its weight when drawing it across a shield, the way the healing aura breathes when held at the ready. In the end, the blade found a new owner who did not seek glory but the steady, quiet reassurance of a weapon that mends as it moves, turning danger into a chance to protect, and turning a skirmish into a story of survival. The tale keeps circling back to a simple truth: in peril, a blade that heals becomes the quiet campfire where strangers become kin and companions.