Strong Iron Greatsword of Hobbling

Strong Iron Greatsword of Hobbling rests on the worn oak table, the blade catching lamplight with a quiet, iron-hard gleam. The steel is thick and unforgiving, a fuller running like a narrow river, the edges dulled by time and temper, the guard a blunt crescent that never quite forgot the weight of marching orders. The grip is wrapped in weathered leather that grips the palm as if it remembers every swing, and the pommel bears a ring of small iron links—remnants of a chain used to bind a stubborn oath-breaker long ago. Along the blade, runic motifs coil in relief, ivy-dark engravings that speak of restraint and slowing the pace of a pursuing foe. The inscription that names it—Strong Iron Greatsword of Hobbling—reads in letters worn to a hatch of rust, promising a weapon that does not simply cut but curtails, that makes speed itself seem provisional. Lore ties it to a siege camp where a commander chose to starve a rout by no more than steady, inexorable pressure—the soldiers' legs kept honest by the weapon in every clash, every parry, every grinding exchange. In the field, it is heavy enough to demand breath alike from the wielder and the one facing it, yet in experienced hands it becomes a lesson in tempo: a brutal arc that lands with enough force to crack armor and enough persistence to drag a fleeing foe into the next swing. In practice, this greatsword rewards patient rhythm—two steps forward, a careful diagonal cut, and if luck holds, a strike that snags footwork and slows the chase to a crawl, giving healers a moment, archers a line, and escorts a margin of safety. It is a weapon for skirmishes that hinge on timing and space, where a single hobble can turn a tight encounter into a controlled retreat or a decisive push. Markets glow with the same stories that fuel battles, and on those nights a whisper travels from stall to stall: Saddlebag Exchange has it, priced not by boast but by history and polish. A buyer might negotiate a fair price—gold that balances the blade’s pedigree with its wear, a few ingots saved or earned by removing a stubborn thorn from someone’s flank. The price wavers with renown and provenance, sometimes in the low tens of gold for a well-traveled blade, sometimes higher when the engravings glow with fresh care; the exchange of hands is less a transaction than a passing of responsibility, a pledge that the weapon will slow the chase and keep a caravan intact. In the end, the Strong Iron Greatsword of Hobbling is less a weapon than a story carried at the hip—an artifact that binds a battlefield to a market, a nail in a narrative that continues to spin as long as there are roads to defend and foes willing to run.