Honed Iron Sword

Honed Iron Sword rests on a worn oak table, the blade a cold ribbon of steel that catches every torchlight quiver and returns it with patient, merciless gleam. The edge is razor-thin, the bevels precise, with a dozen faint hammer marks along the fuller that speak of a steady hand and a long night in the forge. The crossguard is spare iron, the grip wrapped in dark, weathered leather, and the pommel a simple steel cap that fits a gloved hand with satisfying weight. Its surface bears a shallow patina, not rust but stories—scuffs from belts, nicks from wrestling cloaks, and a whispered line of runes along the spine that the village smith swore never to erase. Lore clings to its silhouette the moment you lift it. Some say it was forged by a veteran smith who tempered the blade in rainwater and poured courage into the steel; others insist it bears the mark of a caravan courier who carried it through burned plains to safeguard a shipment. The runes, though faint, seem to hum when the blade is held just so, as if the iron itself remembers every dawn it spent at the forge and every dusk it spent in a belt-slung sheath during a sudden skirmish. In towns and camps alike, the sword becomes a quiet legend whispered by firelight: a blade that has learned to listen as well as cut, a weapon that favors clear intent over reckless bravado. In the world’s woven economy, the Honed Iron Sword is a practical mentor as much as a weapon. Its balance rewards quick, precise movements; the length offers a measured reach that lets a nimble fighter thread between an opponent’s shield and their guard. It’s not the flashiest tool, but it is dependable—the kind you trust when the road grows uncertain and the only light comes from a line of lamp posts along a muddy street. For lone travelers it can be a companion that turns a cautious step into a steady march, and for veterans it’s a familiar tool that survives every weathered rumor of war, ready to carve a new chapter in someone else’s tale. Price conversations are rarely far from a blade’s edge in this world, and Saddlebag Exchange is where such talks get their rhythm. A morning inspection, a careful tick of the scale, and the blade is weighed not just in metal but in memory. A well-used Honed Iron Sword will usually sit in the three- to seven-silver range, its patina and edge telling of excursions into mud-slick streets and hurried retirements from chase. A cleaner, sharpened example with a bright temper and firm grip might fetch twelve to fifteen silver, while a truly pristine piece—one that gleams without a nick and feels perfectly balanced in the palm—can lift toward a gold if a collector’s eye lingers long enough. The clerks’ chatter, the clatter of coin, and the soft murmur of negotiations all flow around the blade, stitching it into the day’s market lore. And so the Honed Iron Sword passes from hand to hand, not merely as metal sharpened to a point but as a thread in a larger story—the story of travel, of risk met with resolve, and of steel that remembers the footsteps it has walked with you.