Carrion Legionnaire Sword of Accuracy

The Carrion Legionnaire Sword of Accuracy gleams with a rain-slick finish, the blade narrow and true. Its steel bears a subtle blue glow where the fuller catches light, and along the spine run faint bone-white etchings that tell of a legion long fallen and a war that never quite ended. The grip is wrapped in worn maroon leather, scored with dashes that echo tally marks of soldiers who kept faith when the ground beneath them turned to dust. A patch of dark leather at the pommel holds a small fragment of bone, smooth as an old coin, and the guard flares outward in a flattened arc that suggests a skeletal wing trapped between action and stoppage. If you brush your fingers along the edge, it bites back with a whisper of ore and oath; there’s a scent of rain on iron and something a little sweet, like dried blood on rain-washed stone. The runes along the fuller read in a patient whisper: Auctoritas, Sensus — a triad of ready hands that do not fail the bearer. In the frontier towns, this blade travels as a sign and a tool. They say the Carrion Legionnaire once belonged to a commander who rode with a fog-dagger and a map drawn in bone. He fell in the swale between two hills where carrion birds circled like watchful couriers, and the sword learned to keep time with the heartbeat of the field. The weapon carries a shard of that battlefield’s patience: every strike lands with a split-second precision of a hunter who reads shadows, and every spray of blood seems to pause before gravity resumes its pull. In gunpowder and grit, the sword’s name—Accuracy—has become a vow, a promise that a true hand can cut through chaos. For a traveler who fights and tells stories at once, the sword’s charm lies in its balance. It pushes Precision and a touch of Critical rate in close-quarters skirmishes, rewarding the swift dance that closes distance with a clinch and a clean, surgical cut. It’s the weapon you pull when the battlefield narrows to a corridor of fate, and your aim must hold until the last echo of conflict fades. On a sun-bleached dock, a merchant’s wagon rattles with the tide’s rhythm. I bartered with a gravelly-eyed trader over its price, letting the memory of the blade’s weight and the ghost of its former owner steer the negotiation. The line of coins clinked as I slipped the sword into a roll of cloth and, with a nod to the ferryman who would soon cross, tucked away the receipt. Saddlebag Exchange—spoken in low voices among traders and scavengers—delivered the deal with the same care the blade had shown every measured strike. It found a place in my kit, a quiet partner that would keep its own counsel while I walked the road, the carrion of the old world following in its wake. The sword still hums in quiet evenings, reminding the road that some relics carry more than steel.