Rampager's Iron Greatsword of Ogre Slaying gleams under torchlight, a broad blade hammered from dark iron with a cold, blue edge that seems to drink the room’s heat. Its fuller runs like a river through stone, and a band of copper rivets keeps the grip in place where the hand would expect to lose it in a moment of panic. The hilt is wrapped in weathered leather, scarred from countless scrapes, and the guard bears a stylized rampager’s crest—a snarling wolf whose teeth sink into a tiny iron ogre skull that doubles as a counterweight. The pommel is crowned with a small iron bead, cold as a lake at dawn, which glints whenever the blade catches a stray torch flare. The overall silhouette is a promise: breadth, reach, and the quiet weight of a weapon that’s been tested in the field, not just in the forge. Legends whisper that this greatsword was tempered in the same furnace that once burned in a keep haunted by ogres, and that the runes etched along the blade’s fuller are taken from banners torn from ogre caravans after a night of clash and retreat. It is said the metal remembers: the way a blade moves with a hunter’s patience, the way it sings when it catches the breath of a charging ogre, the way a single swing can unbalance a behemoth and send it staggering. Those tales aren’t merely romance; they are an inventory of the sword’s lineage, a map of its power, and a reminder that every stride it cuts through is a page in a larger story. In the field, Rampager’s Iron Greatsword of Ogre Slaying is not just a trophy but a tool. It’s heavy enough to punish the air with a single two-handed arc, yet balanced enough to snap back for a decisive second stroke. For a hunter who follows ogre tracks, it’s the difference between a failed ambush and a tale told by campfire light about the time the blade unmade a ridge from the ogre’s shoulder forward. It thrives in crowded fights, where sweeping slashes carve a path through bristling minions and let the boss stumble toward a carefully placed opening. Its edge holds, its spirit endures, and its stories grow louder as kobolds skip away in fear and ogres remember the bite of iron. Last week, a weary trader paused at the Saddlebag Exchange, eyeing the blade with a blend of reverence and practical hunger. The clerk, with a weather-beaten face and fingers stained with ink and grease, named a price that balanced rarity and demand: eighteen gold coins, give or take a silver. The market talk drifted away with the dust as a caravan surged past the stall, but the blade’s promise lingered in the air—proof that a weapon is more than metal: it’s a ledger of hunts, a companion to the road, and a reminder that in a world full of ogres, some stories are literally sharp. Its edge keeps watch over the next dawn.