Honed Iron Greatsword of Bloodlust

Honed Iron Greatsword of Bloodlust glints in the workshop torchlight, a broad blade hammered from stubborn iron that seems to drink the flame rather than reflect it. The edge is kept keen by countless skirmish nights, with a subtle waver along its bevel that suggests a blade tempered by fear as much as fire. Along the fuller, runes are etched in a language no longer spoken; a thin ribbon of dried red lacquer traces them, like a path of dried blood that never quite dries. The hilt is wrapped in weathered leather, metal rings biting into the grip, and the guard curves outward in a protective shrug as if listening for the scream of the next charge. In the pommel sits a small, worn garnet that catches light with a hungry gleam, as though the sword itself leans toward the next hunger. The sword carries a rumor in its weight: a lineage tied to the Bloodbound banners of the old wars, and a smith who promised to temper hatred, not heat. They say it was forged during a siege where wine-dark rain turned the battlefield to mud and screams, and the blacksmith carved vows into the blade with a chisel that refused to be hurried. When the helm fell on the last victorious swing, the weapon earned its name—not simply for the thirst of steel, but for the way it seemed to drink the fear from the air. Whoever bears it, the sword asks for momentum, for a procession of steps that never end. In the world beyond the forge, this greatsword becomes more than metal and myth. It carves space in a crowded line, its swing drawing a crescent that clears a path through armor and teeth alike. Wielders speak of a pulse at the hand’s rise, a tacit blessing that seems to turn every clash into a chorus of heavier impact. There is a rhythm to combat with the Honed Iron: a tempo that favors bold, sweeping arcs, then a brief lull to catch a breath while the blade hums with retained force. Players who crave crowd control, or who want to carve through a doorway of foes in a single, decisive stroke, find that such a weapon reduces the distance between peril and triumph. Market rumors drift through the caravan tents as surely as wind through a canyon. Traders talk of demand and rarity, and the Saddlebag Exchange—a dimly lit marketplace where caravans park and barter—becomes a stage for the blade’s value to swing. The blade’s price travels on whispers and warrants, and a buyer’s patience becomes as sharp as the steel itself. To hold the Honed Iron is to carry a memory of blood and blacksmith’s breath, a promise that the wielder’s next step might echo through the wider world, whether in a scorch of flame or a whisper of steel. In the end, it is not only a blade but a witness, a stubborn flame that carries memory forward, shaping those who join its march.