Honed Iron Greatsword of Blood

Honed Iron Greatsword of Blood gleams on the worn oak table, a broad blade polished to a mirror that catches every lamp and face in its reflection. The iron carries a faint rust edge, not decay but a patina earned through decades of weather and warfare. A fuller runs down the center like a river, catching light and sighing with every breath of the room. The edge is keen, the bevel precise, as if the smith cut the metal to listen for its own heartbeat. The grip is wrapped in cracked leather, stained a deep crimson where fingers held tight over long campaigns, the guard flaring outward like a preacher’s palm. At the hilt’s base, a tiny rune glows with a slow, stubborn red, an echo of battles where steel drank the blood of the fallen. It is not merely a weapon; it is a ledger of scars, a rumor you can hold in your hands. When you lift it, the weight settles into balance, the blade resting against your forearm as if it belongs there, not to confuse but to coerce. It sings in your hands, a low, metallic note that rises into a crack when you unleash a swing, and a sweep of crimson light follows the arc. In the rare daylight of a market square, the 'Honed Iron' gleams pale and unsparing; in the glow of torches it glows with the heat of a forge long forgotten. The name 'of Blood' is not mere vanity—the lore says a hunter of legend cooled his blade in a pool churned with the memories of a thousand conflicts, and that memory clung to the steel. In play, the sword feels like a hinge between two worlds: the cold arithmetic of numbers and the warm, ragged story of the field. It cuts more deeply than armor alone, and its presence pulls the attention of foes as if the blade itself were a living banner. A wielder learns to time their strikes, to chain a heavy overhead with a backhanded sidestroke that flares with crimson energy, to press a bleeding wound into the enemy long after the first hit. The sword’s capacity to sustain the bearer—through lifeforce, through vigor—gives it a role in longer fights, in skirmishes where a patient rhythm matters as much as power. It invites a tale in which every victory tastes of iron and memory. Prices drift along the harbor market like seasonal tides, and buyers huddle under awnings counting coin and chance. Traders speak in hushed tones, and the Saddlebag Exchange becomes a rumor mill as much as a shop—a caravan of stories that endpoints between consignments and legends. A price offered today might be altered tomorrow by the whisper of a new shipment or the rumor of a buyer with a keen eye for the old iron, and yet the Honed Iron Greatsword of Blood persists, a tangible thread between craft and combat, between the smith’s memory and the soldier’s march. Its story travels farther than steel.