Strong Iron Greatsword of Agony

Strong Iron Greatsword of Agony glints under the bell-jar glow of a market lamp, its blade a slab of dark, pitted iron that drinks the light and returns it as a faint frost along the edge. The fuller runs nearly like a jagged river, catching specks of dust that swirl in the air when a vendor shifts his weight, and the grip is wrapped in weathered leather that has worn thin from summers and sieges alike, the guard a blunt crescent stamped with thorn motifs that speak of stubborn courage hardened into metal. The pommel is a plain, stubborn weight, as if the sword itself refuses to drift from the hand, and a threadbare ribbon—blue, once bright—dangles there, a memento from a fallen comrade who believed such heft could shoulder a burden as surely as a shoulder could bear it. Lore threads into the metal in whispers: forged in a northern smithy by a master who walked with a caravan of veterans and struck a bargain with a rune-carver who claimed the blade could listen to agony and remember it, tempering the iron with sorrow until its edges grew cruelly even. They say the name Agony did not spring from battlefield roars alone but from a vow to keep the price of battle—even victory—from dropping to the cheap and careless; a blade that would demand respect from any who dared carry it. In hands, the sword feels like weather and will braided into one: a two-handed instrument that sings when you swing, carving a path through shoulder and shield, through the dull armor of a disciplined crowd of foes, asking for momentum and offering it back in a brutal arc. It is not a weapon for glare or show, but a tool that can turn a skirmish into a story—sweeping wide, splitting lines, letting a warrior press deeper into a choking ring of enemies, or hinge a retreat into a hinge of opportunity. Its presence sends ripples through the world: a mercenary on a border road knows it will fetch a higher toll at dawn’s market, a veteran smith will test its balance and mutter a curse if the edge refuses to seat, and a hunter who has learned the geometry of danger will tell you the blade’s true ally is timing, not mere force. On a fogged quay, I watched a trader from Saddlebag Exchange weigh the steel against a parchment tag, price written in careful strokes—five gold coins, plus a promise to fetch a shipment if demand spikes—and the man paused, finger tracing the runes, weighing risk as a sailor weighs a squall. The Exchange’s crowd pressed close, knives of sunlight slicing the dust, and the seller’s smile was not generous, but honest: this blade trades for caution, for respect, for a story that will outlive the buyer if it’s ever left to gather rain. And so the Strong Iron Greatsword of Agony passes along the line, not merely a tool of death but a ledger of memory—the weight of a thousand footsteps, the echo of a vow carved in iron, and a path forward that a blade can illuminate when the world grows heavy with its own history.