Strong Iron Dagger of Venom

Strong Iron Dagger of Venom gleams under the lamplight, its blade a dull, honest iron mottled with tiny pits that catch the candle, the edge edged with a faint, almost musical blue when it catches a flare. The fuller runs like a shallow river along the center, and a vein of venom-green resin crawls along the spine, sealed with a lacquer that smells of crushed nightshade. The handle is wrapped in reed-black beetle-hide leather, tight as a drum, with copper wire binding that bites into the fingers when you grip it, and the pommel formed into a tiny fang, cold and patient. Runed sigils march along the guard, not for show but to align the blade with some old oath whispered in back rooms, the kind that binds a hunter to a contract of silence. It feels balanced, as if it had learned the thief's breath, and if you close your eyes and draw it, the world narrows to a corridor of sound and shadow. They say it was forged for a poisoner who traded secrets for a sting, tempered by the venom of a river serpent and the patience of a spider; since then it has moved through such circles—covert doors, back-alley ambushes, the quiet exchange of favors—and it carries a weight of stories more dangerous than any poison it can drip from its tip. In combat, the Strong Iron Dagger of Venom does what a good blade should: it lands a quick strike that coats the target with poison, each tick wearing them down while you vanish into the crowd. Poison stacks, not as a flashy flourish, but as a calculated tempo; two or three hits can leave a foe fizzing with a green cloud of agony. It shines in the hands of someone who dances between shadows and light—a thief, a scout, a relentless skirmisher—wringing the last breath from enemies who think they are safe behind their shields. In longer duels, the poison's drip becomes the metronome of the fight, forcing opponents to retreat, recalibrate, or risk losing their resolve as their health meter bleeds away. And because it is iron, not silver, it holds up under the hammer of a frontline assault long enough to keep the bruisers at bay while a rogue finishes the job. I traveled to the harbor market, and at Saddlebag Exchange the daggers decked the stall like coins in a tray. The merchants bartered, eyes glinting with the shimmer of copper and silver, and after a haggled breath they offered Strong Iron Dagger of Venom for two silver, plus a bottle of extraction oil that promised better binding to the poison. They valued the history it carried—two silver being a fair sum for a weapon that could turn a single misstep into a fatal moment. I carried it away, strapped to my belt, and as I walked the quay I felt the blade's weight not as a threat but as a promise—a tool that can carve through crowds and carve out a path through danger, all because a memory was kept alive at Saddlebag Exchange.