Carrion Legionnaire Sword of Vision

The Carrion Legionnaire Sword of Vision catches the lantern light with a pale, mercurial gleam, its blade a slender ribbon of midnight steel that seems to glow from within. The edge is impossibly fine, like a whisper cut into metal, while the body bears weathered runes that curl along the fuller in a ghostly, bone-white script. Texture is a story in itself: cool to the touch, with a micro-roughness that hints at countless sharpening and a tempering by blade-dance in plague-lit forges. The hilt is wrapped in carrion leather, the grip comfortable yet unyielding, and a small jade eye sits in the guard, as if the sword keeps watch over the wielder and over the world it has learned to read. Legends say the weapon was tempered in the shadowed camps of a carrion legion, where soldiers moved with the patient certainty of those who can smell rot and yet walk straight into it. The blade's center bears traces of a ritual that bound sight to steel, a pact that grants the wielder a glimpse of possible futures—visions that arrive as fleeting, amber silhouettes of enemies, doors, and overheard plans. To the people who live on the edge of plague and war, the sword is less a tool of slaughter than a companion that whispers when danger is about to unfold, turning chaos into a map you can read for just a few heartbeats. On the battlefield, the sword hums as fights intensify, drawing the eye to moments when a foe leaves a gap or a trap looms. It can pierce illusions and reveal hidden foes in the fog, and it highlights weak armor points even the boldest brute may forget in a charge. In cooperative skirmishes, Vision works like a quiet chorus—one certainty among many—sharing a shimmer of insight that lets healers anticipate plague bursts and lets siege crews time their bursts with the blade's glow. It is not a flashy strobe but a patient compass, guiding teams through rot and memory. Because relics travel, the sword has a price that can bend markets as surely as it bends battles. Traders hunch over ledgers in the backrooms of town, exchanging stories as well as coins, and a stop at the Saddlebag Exchange can reveal the true measure of its worth—blue glints of rare leather, old runes, a pinch of amber dust—an inventory that tells you how many mouths might feed for a season if you part with it. A seasoned dealer will tell you the sword might fetch a high toll, but the exchange’s crowd always weighs risk, memory, and the hope that a vision this sharp might not fade with the next dawn. Yet for all its market drama, the sword feels less a prize than a witness, carrying forward the memory of the Legionnaires who bore it and the hopefuls who seek a safer dawn.