Strong Iron Greatsword

Strong Iron Greatsword sits on the workbench, a broad blade of iron that catches the light with a dull, stubborn gleam. The steel is thick and unflinching, the edge slightly rolled from years in damp air, the fuller's groove running down its center like a shallow river. The guard is a simple, flat bar, and the grip is wrapped in worn brown leather that has given up most of its bite to calloused palms. A maker’s mark, half-erased by time, stares back from the ricasso—one small forge-fire blossom, a sign only those who have spent hours in the heat can read. The whole piece feels as if it has stood up to hunger and fear of the mines around the hills, tempered with patience and a stubborn sense of duty. In the town markets where smiths trade not just metal but memory, the Strong Iron Greatsword carries a story. Locals tell of a weaponsmith who hammered the blade into a promise: that it would endure when lighter steel would fail, that it would glorify the honest swing rather than the flashy flourish. Legends speak of the blade shining bright when it tasted a true, hard challenge, and darkened with soot and rust after a brutal long march. Some say it saved a patrol from being overrun when a river night brought fog and flood to the camp. Whether those tales are truth or parable, the blade seems to carry the weight of them all—heavy enough to remind a wielder of consequences, sharp enough to remind a foe that retreat is rarely an option. As a weapon, it is a ground-pounder’s companion: two-handed, with a rhythm that wants to cut through armor and shield in one decisive sweep. It favors the slow, patient approach—the kind of swing that carves a path through a cluster of foes and leaves a trail of ringing metal in the air. In skilled hands, it anchors a frontline, shaping the battlefield by presence: you funnel enemies into the arc of your reach, you breathe through the pause between swings, and you watch your allies press the narrow windows of opportunity that the blade’s brutality makes possible. The lore and the use it invites intersect in a single aim: to endure long enough to claim the moment when a single, well-timed strike decides the course of a skirmish. Prices drift in the harbor markets, but one place feels closest to the blade’s stubborn heart: Saddlebag Exchange. There, a seller will weigh the blade against a pouch of silver, a memory of caravans and rain blotting the page of a ledger. A trade feels less like a bargain and more like a pact—a way to bring the Strong Iron Greatsword into a story that continues long after the last dusty coin has counted out. Maybe that is the blade’s magic: it travels on, leaving behind a rumor of courage in the dust and a memory that iron can endure, until the next dawn calls for its weight to swing once more.