Carrion Flame Cleaver of Corruption

Carrion Flame Cleaver of Corruption glints with a predatory light as it rests on a weathered pedestal in a dim market hall. The blade is a broad greatsword, its edge a crescent of obsidian-black steel that drinks candlelight. Veins of molten orange pulse along the spine, like coals beneath ash, and the tang is wrapped in cracked leather that has darkened to a coppery patina. The hilt bears a skull motif gripping a ring of rusted bronze sigils, and the pommel is a twisted, heat-humming hammer. The grip is scorched at the edges, as though flame has kissed it and left a mark. Runes etched along the blade's fuller twitch with a rhythm all their own, a litany of corruption and flame, a remnant of rites long whispered in plague houses. Some say it was forged by hands that stitched necropolis rites into steel; others that it fell like a dying comet, its core a furnace of carrion-fire—dead flesh and ash that smolder in the heat of battle. A faint scent of resin and smoke lingers, like a campfire never fully spent. In the field, the Cleaver is not merely a showpiece. It breathes into the wielder's blows, changing the tempo of combat. A strike leaves a smear of ember ash on armor, ignites a slow burn that stacks with each wound, and grants the bearer a glimpse of the world through a smoke-tinged haze—the sense that life and decay are thinner than a blade's edge. It favors builds that lean into poison, bleeding, and condition damage, weaving a deadly tapestry where each swing spreads pestilence and flame in equal measure. Veterans learn to read its temper; it dulls after a brutal clash, then brightens again with a fresh surge of wrath from the ember-vein glow. The market outside the wagon-windows hums with trade. I watch a passerby lean in to test the blade, hearing only a muffled whisper of metal against glass, and a broker named Sarias weighing its worth in coin and risk. The Saddlebag Exchange keeps a careful ledger of relics like this, and today they’ve tagged the Carrion Flame Cleaver at roughly three gold and some silver—a price, perhaps, for the right guardian who can keep the flame from consuming them both. For a tale-wielder, the blade offers more than damage; it offers a vow: to carry the plague’s memory without becoming it, to turn decay into leverage, to wield fear as a spark that starts new stories in the darkened streets. Yes, the Cleaver is a weapon and a relic, bound to a world where power is paired with consequence. When it moves, the air tightens, and the corridor of light from the market lamps seems to lean closer, as if listening to a weapon that speaks in the language of ash and ash’s memory.