Carrion Flame Greatsword of Water

The Carrion Flame Greatsword of Water catches the light with a ghostly shimmer, a blade that seems half-formed from steam and bone. The edge is a pale, almost ivory curve, etched with sigils that pulse like embers smeared with rain. Along the spine, scales of charcoal metal catch stray droplets, each bead clinging as if reluctant to fall. The runed hilt is wrapped in worn eel-skin, its grip cool to the touch, and the pommel bears a tiny copper valve that sighs when the sword is swung, as if the weapon breathes with you. When you tilt it just so, the blade holds a mirror of the water you’ve walked near—swirls of blue light roiling within the steel, like smoke trapped in glass. Lore whispers that this greatsword was forged at the river's edge by a wandering smith who coaxed a carrion flame—the fleeting glow of spirits that feed on decay—into a bond with water’s patient patience. The flame feeds on dead things, yes, but water hushes its hunger; together they temper the blade until it can cut through heat and fog as if there were no distance between flame and tide. In the field, its signature is not just the glow but the way the blade moves. A single two-handed sweep sends a ribbon of mist and heat across the arena, carving a corridor through opponents and leaving damp heat in its wake. It feels almost like a story you tell your allies: that fire and water can be reconciled, that a weapon can burn and bless at the same moment. In combat, it thrives in close-quarters brawls and in long, sweeping arcs where you can guide the mist into the faces of clustered foes. The swirls slow, dampen, and briefly mask allies as they slip through the steam veil. Some banners claim it grants a touch of vitality with every strike, others speak of enhanced vigor when your resolve is tested by floodgate battles—whether that is true or myth matters little if your party can ride the wave of that tale into victory. There are whispers, too, of occasional frost in the blade’s wake, a cooling breath that steadies a treacherous moment when morale falters and the river chooses to reverse its course. On the market, stories of such blades travel as quickly as whispers do along a harbor. I checked Saddlebag Exchange for a glimpse of its price, where seasoned traders note condition and provenance with the same care they give to a river map. A listing appeared, not as a boast but as a map to value: “Carrion Flame Greatsword of Water, gently used, carries a history as bright as it is dangerous,” the post said, with a note about current pricing that flickered between supply and demand. The price, like the weapon, shifts with the tides—high when a guild ledger points to steady demand from swarm bosses and river-crossing raids, lower when the market floods with duplicates. A buyer can haggle, a seller can hinge on a memory of a river crossing and a night watch by the fire. Saddlebag Exchange thus becomes less a shop and more a ledger of stories—an index of who has faced the carrion flame and lived to tell about it, and who might dare to take it into the next raid or run through a river tunnel to find a legend waiting on the far side. In this world, the Carrion Flame Greatsword of Water is more than metal. It is a rumor you carry, a map you follow, a warning that sometimes fire's hunger can be tempered by the patient, patient rhythm of water.