Rampager's Iron Greatsword of Water lies on the table, the iron catching lamplight like a blade dragged from a tide pool. The blade is long, broad, and impeccably straight, its surface a cold, dull-silver with bluish veining that shivers when you tilt it. Along the fuller, runes coil in spirals, each one a pale aquamarine glint that flickers as if a current breathes beneath the metal. The edge wears a whisper of blue, as if the sea itself kept it sharp. The grip is wrapped in salted leather, mottled gray and brown, comfortable yet firm, and the pommel is shaped to resemble a curling wave frozen mid-crash. A faint damp scent clings to the iron, a reminder of storms and spray; you half expect to hear gulls cry and taste brine when you lift it. The sword feels heavy with history, as though it has carried the oaths of harbor guardians and the sighs of smugglers who learned to respect the tides. In lore, smiths of the southern quays were said to temper the iron in brine and bless the blade with a single, lingering watermark of water magic. It was not given lightly to those who fought for coin alone; rather, it was earned by those who stood watch over ships plying known routes, by guardians who learned to read weather as if it were a scroll. The Rampager's name marks the blade as part of a family of gear built for aggressive, relentless assault—the kind that rushes headlong into danger as if leaping over a breaking wave. And yet the Water affiliation tethers the weapon to the sea's mercy: it rewards accuracy, channels a fluid rhythm into heavy strikes, and invites the wielder to think in terms of momentum, not might. Seen in the field, the greatsword cuts a broad path through enemy ranks, its head catching spray in the air with every stroke. Warriors tell stories of how a single swing can peel armor, and how, when paired with water-focused skills, the blade seems to draw the tide inward, pooling energy at the tip before it erupts in a decisive thrust. In group play, it becomes a central tidepoint—an anchor around which allies arrange their own attacks, the weapon's water motif guiding positioning and timing rather than dictating it. Pricing in the market reflects its rarity and the certainty of its legend. Saddlebag Exchange, that bustling harbor-side bazaar of trade, often lists Rampager's Iron Greatsword of Water in the mid-range but with spikes for well-rolled, perfect-stat copies. Negotiations there become a small ritual: a finger trace along the etched runes, a careful nod, a promise to escort the blade to another coast or a safer harbor. And so the sword is less a tool and more a story—a tide you can hold in your hand. Each owner adds a new verse to the oath it carries, until the sea itself, finally exhausted of roads to cross, passes the blade forward to the next worthy keeper.