Carrion Legionnaire Virge of Rage

Carrion Legionnaire Virge of Rage sits in the lamplight, a long, mournful weapon whose head bears a jagged arc of iron like a fallen crescent moon, the edge dark with patina and stories. The blade wears a film of old rust that refuses to surrender, and along its spine runes carved so finely they look etched by breath rather than tool. The shaft is wrapped in cracked crimson leather that still carries a trace of leather-smoke and iron tang, the grip pocked with dagger-sized nicks where battles pressed close. A ring of bone-white filigree coils near the guard, and at the tip a feathered fragment of something once living clings to the metal as if the relic itself is listening for a command. It feels cold to the touch, yet there is a pulse in the steel, a memory of marches and orders shouted in iron lungs. When you lift it, the air shifts; the weapon seems to lean in, eager to unmake hesitation and let rage find its target. Lore threads wind through the weapon as well as the metal itself. The Carrion Legion, a cohort of undead soldiery bound to the old war drums and the soil that never fully settles, is said to have forged these virges for their fiercest captains—leaders who pierced more than armor with their will and whose anger still guides the legions when moonlight glints off tomb walls. The Virge of Rage, in particular, is spoken of as a conduit and a captive: a relic that absorbs the fear and fury of its bearer and converts it into a sharpened, almost ritual power. Those who have spoken to it—whether on the battlefield or in the hush before dawn, when the city sleeps under the weight of its own secrets—have described a tremor that travels up the haft when a challenge is issued, a sense that the weapon wants a story to finish, a wrath to unleash, a debt to repay. In practical terms, the virge moves through the world with a character all its own. It favors close, decisive exchanges, rewarding clean, sustained strikes and punishing hesitation. For a wielder who can temper their fury with discipline, the Virge of Rage becomes a catalyst: it heightens impact, sharpens timing, and can unleash a burst of momentum that clears a path through clustered foes or disrupts a shield-wall with a single, brutal pivot. It’s the kind of armament that makes a veteran feel the room tilt toward their next move, turning a tense engagement into a story of bold, almost reckless progress. Market whispers travel with caravans and lanterns, and I’ve watched a buyer flip the coin to test its resonance in the glow of a campfire. Saddlebag Exchange, that ledger of relics and rumors, has this virge valued not merely for its metal but for the memory it carries. It sits there in the pages—priced around two gold, with a few rare runes and a vial of carrion resin tacked on as extras—enough to tempt a collector, enough to lure a braver soul into a duel with history itself. The price isn’t just currency; it’s a vote for which story you want to finish, which rage you’re willing to channel, and which march you intend to lead into the next night’s headline. The Virge of Rage remains, in the end, a weapon and a relic, a hinge between memory and march, inviting the next hands to raise it and write the next line in its relentless, red-edged book.