Carrion Legionnaire Spear of Vision

Carrion Legionnaire Spear of Vision gleams on the worn display shelf of the pier-side stall, a spear that looks as if it were hammered from the night itself. The shaft is a weathered obsidian rod, cool and slick, with faint striations like old wood petrified by the sea. The head is bone-white, carved with sigils that flare a cold green whenever the air grows tense, and the nicks along the edge catch the light in slow, cruel glints. The grip is wrapped in faded leather, cracked and beeswaxed with care, and when you lift it, a shiver runs from your wrist up your forearm, as though the relic remembers the hands it has known. Story has it that this is no ordinary spear but a relic carried by Carrion Legionnaires, warriors who walked the frontiers between decay and memory. They claimed visions as they fought—whispers of the next blow, silhouettes of those who would betray them, a thread of fate spun from rotting banners and iron will. To wield it is to invite the past into the present. In combat the Spear of Vision gives off a shimmering aura when unfurled, a short-lived window that reveals stealthy enemies and exposes weak points in armor—the battlefield answering a soldier’s question before the question is even asked. Some users report a heightened sense of timing, a rhythm that lets a party chain strikes with greater precision, as if the spear is tutoring the wielder in the ghost-light of old battles. Its lore—that it was tempered in memory and cooled in the carrion winds—colors its usefulness with a sense of inevitability: you aren’t merely hitting foes; you’re unspooling a prophecy you were always meant to read. Market days take on a certain hush when it sits on a stall, and traders at Saddlebag Exchange speak in low, measured tones about its price. A handful of gold pieces can swing like a pendulum, depending on who wants a glimpse of destiny or a guaranteed edge in a raid, and whispers of demand rise and fall with caravans clattering through the hinterlands. I watch a buyer haggle, and the stall-keeper nods toward the price, then toward the case, as if the spear is already a chapter drawn into a larger book. The exchange’s crowd knows this relic won’t stay on the shelf long; it shifts hands with the same patient dare as river stones in a flood season. Back on the road, the spear carves a line through smoke and dust, guiding a small band through ruined gates. When a trap rises like a pale jaw, the Vision sundered by the weapon’s glow reveals the unseen, and the party moves as one, not hurried, not reckless. The spear does not demand sacrifice; it offers a second sight, a way to read the map of danger written across the field by those who remember a war that never truly ended. By nightfall, the relic sits again in its case, its sigils dimmed, its promise intact, waiting for another hand that can listen to the dead and turn their whispers into steps forward.