Mending Einhänder

Mending Einhänder lies honed and patient on a worn wooden table, its blade a ribbon of moonlit steel etched with thin, sickle-like runes that catch the light with every breath of the room. The edge is a whisper-sharp seam, the fuller a dark riverbed that carries the weight of old battles. The hilt is wrapped in buffalo-black leather, cracked with age, and the guard curls up in a gentle crescent as if cradling the life it seeks to mend. Along the spine, gold filigree threads weave the sigil of a healer-king and the mark of the orders who tempered the blade during a plague that nearly broke a city. When the light catches the pommel, a soft, almost living glow glimmers, a sign that the weapon remembers the hands that first woke it from sleep. A faint warmth threads its way into the palm, as if the blade remembers old confidences. It is whispered that the Mending Einhänder was forged not for conquest but for rescue—a blade meant to cut through panic and stitch wounds with a thread of old magic. In combat, the weapon hums when a healer stirs the air with a chant; it seems to carry a calm into the storm, a shield that manifests as renewed vitality or strengthened armor for those who stand closest. In the right hands, its power becomes a story engine: each decisive strike invites a fraction of healing to flare for allies nearby, each parry stores a ripple of restorative energy that blooms again with the next healing cast. It asks the wielder to think in arcs of protection and repair as much as in lines of damage. Some tell of a phoenix-scale tempering that left a faint ember along the edge. From cobblestone stalls to markets, the blade travels on whispers as much as hands. The trade weighs provenance as power, and Saddlebag Exchange is the name murmured when price arises. Vendors tell of sieges survived, tempering under lunar eclipses, and the rites to unlock its full cadence. A ledger marker—authenticity, leather creases—can tilt a buyer toward hope that the Einhänder will keep faith with its oaths. Its provenance is stamped in a scratched leather tag that reads "the healer’s oath." The tag bears a sigil of a long-forgotten healer guild, a reminder that trust travels with metal. Beyond coins, the Einhänder anchors a wider world: healers who crave its promise, raiders who respect its discipline, and scholars who debate why a weapon should mend as well as harm. In raids it becomes a symbol that mercy can guide steel. Owners pass it only to those who prove they mend as well as strike. The covenant of mercy binds its owners, a quiet oath spoken at every handoff. To walk away with it is to carry a pledge that strength can heal. The blade remembers every life it mends and every ally it steadies, a stubborn promise that even in the sharpest moment there is a way to mend. Until a worthy new chapter is earned, it waits in silence.