Razorstone

Razorstone rests on a weathered workbench, its face a slab of obsidian-gray stone cut with the cold precision of a blade-maker's hand. The edges glitter with a hairline sheen, as if etched by a flame that never quite burns away. Its texture is rough and glassy, gritty to the touch yet slick where mineral veins gather like storm-woven rivers beneath the surface. Tiny flecks of iron glare in pinpoints, catching lantern light and throwing back a dull mirror of the room. Lorekeepers say the Razorstone is older than the smithy’s first bellows, a shard of earth that learned to bite. Some stories insist it is a fragment of a comet’s trail, fractured by heat and time to become a whetstone that remembers every cut. Whether truth or legend, the stone carries authority, a suggestion that to own it is to claim a piece of craft’s stubborn future. It sits in the narrative of every workshop it's touched. Crafters grind with it, temper with it, coax from it a blade that can hold an edge against armor and wind. Used in tempering recipes and ceremonial gifts, Razorstone is not merely material; it’s a rite of passage for apprentices learning to listen to metal. In a veteran armorer's hands, a Razorstone can turn a common weapon into something that whispers of storms and distant oceans, a blade that remembers every clash it has witnessed. Players encounter it not by chance but as a requisite for certain gear lines: not flashy trinkets, but lasting tools of survival—weapon sets, charms, and a few legendary-leaning crafts that require the stone’s patient bite to reveal their form. It’s scarce enough to feel earned, but not so rare that it disappears from memory; you’ll find it in foundries and stockrooms of merchants who know costs are measured in stories as much as silver. Caravans roll through towns with pink dust in their crates, and the merchants tell of demand shifting with seasons of skirmishes and harvests. On a morning market at Saddlebag Exchange, a stack of Razorstones rests beside a ledger, the price binding between risk and craft, between the thrill of a new blade and the debt of a night’s work. A buyer might trade a handful of copper for one shard, or perhaps swap a polished material from a far-off quarry if the guild permits. The chatter never stops: whether you’re arming a squad for a dawn patrol or sharpening your own tools for a competitive duel, Razorstone provides a common voice, a quiet agreement that some things in this world are defined by their edge as much as their hue. And so Razorstone keeps moving—passed from apprentice to mentor, from stall to workshop—its line of metal slicing through the forge as surely as any vow. In the end, it’s not just a material but a memory, a reminder that rough edges can be tempered into something that serves, protects, and endures. Its impact lingers in every workshop, shaping hands, choices, and stories told alike.