Strong Axe

Strong Axe rests on a sun-warmed bench, its blade catching the light with a cold gleam. The head is a block of tempered steel, broad and heavy, the bevels ground to a stubborn edge that remembers every swing it has survived. A thin line of oil catches the rays, making the steel look almost wet, as if the blade breathed. The haft is stout, carved from ash, stained a deep saddle-brown, and lacquered to resist rain. The leather grip cracks in places, worn smooth by years of use, and at the very end the pommel bears a tiny, almost playful notch—perhaps a farmer's mark or a sign that the blade has a tale of its own to tell. On its spine, faint runes spiral in a pattern that longtime smiths whispered about, the kind of script that hints at a forge where the air was always hot and the anvils rang through the night. A leather sleeve, dyed with a stubborn red, wraps the handle for purchase in rough weather. In a world where every blade has a purpose, the Strong Axe feels built for the practical: for cutting through underbrush to clear a trail, for felling a tree to build shelter, for prying loose boards to expose a stubborn nail in a ruined door. Yet something in its weight and balance also speaks to combat—the axe bites with a clean edge that wants to bite again, and the handle's curvature invites a counter swing with both hands. I learned its story the way things in the borderlands reveal themselves—not in grand gestures but in the quiet logic of use. A veteran woodsman, half blind to danger, trusted the Strong Axe to carry him through a season of storms. When his camp was attacked by raiders seeking timber, the blade and its bearer carved a path to safety, splitting shield wood and stubborn resistance with a patient, practiced rhythm. The bibliophiles in town insist the axe carries more lore than most, as if the blade learned the woods’ secrets in its own sleep. In markets, word travels as quickly as rumors do. A traveler glided through the stalls and paused at a ledger-bound stall called the Saddlebag Exchange, where traders bartered with seasoned hands. The Strong Axe sat there, priced around twelve silver in decent condition, higher if the blade gleamed with rare oil or the handle wore particularly well. It’s not simply a tool for sale; sellers speak of it as a companion on many journeys — a partner that will stand beside a campfire, then ring true in a skirmish when the moment of truth comes. In the grip of a storm, a single swing can turn timber into shelter for travelers. So it remains, heavy and honest, a piece of a larger story about the people who carry it, the forests that shaped it, and the decisions that turn steel into shelter, or into the right swing that makes a bid for freedom possible.