Strong Sword

Strong Sword glints under the tavern lantern, a blade of tempered steel that drinks the light and returns it in a cool, blue gleam. The edge is razor-thin, etched with a delicate runic lattice that catches every candle flame. The fuller runs nearly the length of the blade, a whisper of weight relief that invites a confident draw. The grip is wrapped in weather-dark leather, snug and tactile, with copper rivets that sing softly when you shift your hand. The guard fans out like two small wings mid-flight, and the pommel bears a sigil—a horned moth circling a laurel circle—that old smiths claim marks the blade's origin along the caravan routes between border towns. Legends say the metal was smelted in a storm-lit forge, tempered with frost and a sailor's oath, binding the sword to its bearer in moments of decision. On the battlefield, Strong Sword does not shout with showy enchantments. It moves with you—a precise, reliable partner for quick parries and clean cuts that slip through momentum and armor alike. The blade’s balance favors the fighter who reads a line of charge and steps into a counter, letting the blade follow the course the mind intended. In tight skirmishes it shines, weaving an opening for a decisive strike; in longer duels its edge holds, the grip never loosening even as the tempo rises. In players who favor sweep and control swear by it, while the lore-touched carry it as a reminder that steel remembers the hand that wields it. It scales with the wielder's skill, rewarding patience as much as speed, so a novice learns discipline and a veteran trust. Market days bring it into view in the Saddlebag Exchange, a rough-hewn courtyard where caravans swap stories as much as gear. A clerks' booth might lay out price-tapers of coin and the occasional note of credit, and there, glinting beside dented scabbards, the Strong Sword sits as if waiting for a new chapter. The merchant weighs it on a brass balance, counting out silver pieces and shaded copper with the care of someone who understands that a blade is more than metal—it is a promise. The price shifts with rumor: a tale of a knight's last stand or a dragon-sighting nearby can lift its value, while a raid on a warehouse can pull it down. Buyers trade for delivery, not just possession, and sellers speak of provenance: who forged it, who carried it, where it kept its edge. Even now, the blade waits for a new owner to speak to it. When a hand finally closes around the grip, you hear the old moth sigil in your mind's ear—an omen more than a brand—and the road ahead seems a little straighter, the world a touch simpler. The Strong Sword is not just a tool of war; it is a link between the stories of a hundred travelers, a hinge upon which a city's fate might turn. And so the market hums, the lanterns glow, and the blade waits for the next tale to carve into its steel. If you listen closely, you hear a quiet oath in every cut.