Carrion Legionnaire Maul of Vision

Carrion Legionnaire Maul of Vision gleams under the shop’s lantern, its iron head scarred by countless dawns of heat and hammered into a broad, blunt surface that carries a crown of bone-white runes circling the periphery like a skeletal halo. The metal wears a weathered patina, dark as wet stone, with veins of rust threading through the grain. The grip is wrapped in cracked leather, threaded with sinew that whispers when you rub it, and the whole thing breathes a chill that seems to settle into your bones even before you swing. If you cradle it close, you can feel the old weight of battles long memory—the weight of a legion that never learned to forget. Lore says this maul was forged in the shadow of a carrion-edged campaign, when a weary Legionnaire bound a last, feverish sight into the weapon and sealed it with a whisper of vision. They claimed the vision would not grant mere swing power but a snatch at truth: a momentary glimpse of an opponent’s next move, a hint of how their stance will shift, a hint of the trap laid for you. In the stories told around funeral pyres and in damp fort halls, those who have wielded it describe an almost tactile tighten in the air as the hidden thread of the coming strike becomes visible—like watching a door swing open from the other side of a wall. The maul doesn’t just crush; it opens a line of sight into the fog of war, a rare luxury for commanders who must weigh the fate of others against their own. In the field, the Carrion Legionnaire Maul of Vision feels less like a tool of destruction and more like a seasoned advisor that happens to be heavy enough to shatter armor. Wielders speak of pulses of pale light that ride along the hammerhead as it connects with steel—moments when a foe’s pattern is laid bare, when you can see their pivot, their feint, their breath catching just a heartbeat before they commit. It’s not a cheat, so much as a ruthless tutor: the more battles the wielder survives, the more precise the vision becomes, until you learn to bend the tempo of the clash to your own favor. Yet the power is not free. Each use drains a sparing memory, as if the weapon feeds on the cost of seeing too much, leaving a quiet ache behind the jaw and a hollow echo in the heart. Prices drift like smoke in the markets, and Saddlebag Exchange is where many old-timers go to test the worth of such a relic. A fair deal can hinge on the mood of the day, the skill of the appraisers, and the whisper of the crowd that gathers to witness a bid rise and fall in the glow of lanterns. The maul’s value travels across coin and trade goods, sometimes resting in the realm of gold pieces and other times traded for rarer wares echoing the same grim purpose. Buyers come ready to bargain, their pockets lined with stories of battles fought and visions earned, because this weapon doesn’t just change hands—it changes the way a story ends.