Rampager's Iron Greatsword of Debility

Rampager's Iron Greatsword of Debility rests on a scarred wooden table, its blade a cold sheen of iron that catches the candlelight with a cruel, wintry glint. The edge is tempered to a mirror and a faint blue edge glows along the fuller, like frost caught in a smith's kiss. Its grip is wrapped in oil-dark leather, a simple guard guarding a heavy balance, and the pommel bears a carved serpent that seems to twist in the lantern light. On the blade, sigils spiral in a dull red and copper thread, and the runes hum with a memory of battles past. Locals tell of its making by the Rampager smiths, those iron-handed artists who tempered weapons to sing as they broke enemy lines. It is said to carry the memory of a captain who fell defending a pass, a memory pressed into the steel so the wearer might carry hope, not fear. In the battlefield it is more than a blade; its Debility runs like a whisper through armor, thinning the resolve of those who glance its edge and signaling allies to close ranks. When the greatsword sweeps, feints become openings, and the tempo of a fight tilts toward the bold who press through the unsettled pace Debility creates. Some wielders learn to synchronize its aura with others' stances, turning a hostile stumble into a chorus that buys a moment for the healer to reach. Prices drift through the markets like puffs of steam, and I watch the signboard at Saddlebag Exchange swing between wary skepticism and hungry desire when Rampager's Iron Greatsword of Debility is in the window. A merchant will name a price in silver, then relent to a fair bartering pace, for the sword's history makes it more valuable than metal alone. Some buyers seek the weapon for the aura of depleting weakness it carries, others for the tale of the pass, the captain, and the iron-smiths who believed a blade could tilt the world. I have seen it used to guard a caravan along frost-washed roads, where the Debility saps the teeth of a raider's bite and buys a moment for a mounted scout to howl a warning. I have watched a duel on a riverbank where two veterans traded parries, and the sword's edge drew a line of fatigue across the opponent's brow, turning a close fight into a cautious retreat. In such stories, the Debility is less a spell than a shared memory—the moment a frontline blade earned its keep by making a troublesome foe honest about retreat. When a trader speaks of it, he does not only weigh metal and magic; he weighs the weight of a hundred small skirmishes and the quiet promise that a blade can decide when to choose courage. The road near the river still remembers the captain who taught his crew to bow before the lift of iron, and somewhere in a private chest a frayed letter hints at a hidden covenant with the maker. Its burden remains.