Carrion Legionnaire Axe of Rage

The Carrion Legionnaire Axe of Rage sits on a lacquered display in a dim corner of the market, its blade catching the lamplight like a shard of dusk. The edge is a wet, coppery gleam, as if it had tasted a hundred battles and learned to grin. The blade itself is broad and heavy, carved with sinewy lines that mimic ribbed bone, the fuller running like a fault line through a storm-gray steel. Along the spine, a row of small, horned runes glows faintly, as if the weapon remembers every corpse it has faced. The haft is wrapped in black leather, cracked and oil-dark, with a guard shaped to resemble a skeletal wing curled protectively around the grip. A brass pommel bears the mark of a carrion raven—an emblem that ties the weapon to those who haunt the plague-wrought marches where legions once marched. Lore threads its way into every whisper the vendor repeats. This is no mere tool of war, but an heirloom forged in the same furnaces that tempered a regiment that fought to keep the living from becoming the dead’s next supper. The Carrion Legionnaire Axe of Rage, they say, was wielded by a sergeant who learned to channel the rage of fallen comrades into a blade that would not bend, a weapon that fed on fear as much as it fed on flesh. When a strike lands, the metal seems to hum with remembered screams, and those nearby feel a quick, hot breath as if the battlefield itself exhaled through the axe. In actual play, its presence is a story you carry with you. The weapon rewards decisive, aggressive play—crits spark a temporary surge, a burst of Fury that blurs the world into a red-tinted blur and lets the wielder shred through crowds with a predictably brutal rhythm. It pairs with builds that lean on quick harassment and plate-breaking combinations, turning a frontline skirmish into a narrative of stoic endurance and ruthless leverage. Players tell of charging through a necromancer’s line, the axe’s roar dousing the hexes while the healer scrambles to keep pace, the rogue weaving behind to finish the fallen and force the enemy to confront the wrath you’ve awakened. Market days tint the air with coin and barter. A dealer at Saddlebag Exchange names a price that rings like a bell—gold coins traded for replicas of plague ash and scraps of rare ore. The ledger grows and recedes with the market’s mood, and the Axe of Rage moves in lockstep with those moods, arriving in a traveler’s bag one dawn and vanishing in the same market’s dusk. The story of the weapon, then, isn’t finished when the quest ends; it travels with its owner, a living epilogue etched on a red glow of iron and memory. Some nights, the axe seems to breathe in its owner's smoke, the edge catching moonlight as if it still seeks the fate it was forged to alter. It remains stubborn and inexorable, a chapter in world.