Strong Sword

Strong Sword catches the lamplight the moment I cradle it from the glass case. The blade is long and even, tempered steel that seems to drink the torchlight and spit it back as a bright, almost liquid gleam. A shallow fuller runs along its spine, catching every flicker and turning it into a whisper of steel. The edge is crisp, the bevel precise, and the crossguard bears the dents of a hundred patrols rather than a single triumph. The grip is wrapped in blue-black leather, worn smooth by hands that learned to trust its balance, and the pommel bears a tiny sigil—hammer and anvil entwined with a strand of rope—that marks it as a blade born in a workshop that valued craft as much as courage. Local lore says it was forged during a long winter and named Strong after a shield-wall that held when a river assault threatened a supply camp. The sword’s story travels through taverns and blacksmith forges alike, whispered by veterans who claim a blade remembers its owner’s breath and never complains about a dull day on patrol. Some say the Strong Sword earned its name on a night when a stubborn man refused to yield a single step, and in that moment the blade found its edge in more ways than one. In the hands, it settles into a rhythm that favors calm, repeatable movement. It’s not the flashiest blade in the rack, but its balance makes it reliable for close-quarters work: quick stabs into gaps in armor, controlled slashes that carve through chain and leather, and clean, decisive parries that turn an opponent’s momentum back on themselves. For a player who favors a steady pace—two beats to every breath—the Strong Sword is a trusted partner, one that invites confidence rather than spectacle. It shines in duels of patience, in skirmishes along dusty streets, and in the quiet, tense moments before a charge when every inch of edge matters. At Saddlebag Exchange, the market hums around the blade like flies around a lamp. The trader there lifts the sword, checks the edge with a careful thumb, and nods at the patina that time refuses to erase. He prices it not as a mere tool but as a story; demand from veterans, scavengers, and storytellers keeps the value steady, though it rises with every tale of use. The best days, he muses, are when a buyer sees more than steel—when they hear the sword’s history and feel its promise. A fair trade for the Strong Sword becomes a pact: a shared burden, a shared memory, and, for the right owner, a new chapter ready to be carved. And when the exchange is done, the Strong Sword returns to its owner's side, its edge humming softly in the lamplight as the city settles. Perhaps its best magic is not the damage it deals, but the certainty it lends to the one who wields it. In the end, the Strong Sword is less a weapon than a trust renewed.