Dull Blade

Dull Blade rests on the merchant’s counter, its steel dulled to the color of old pewter and the edge curved from years of kitchen chores and clumsy skirmishes. The blade’s profile is slender, a narrow fuller running along its length like a quiet river, the tip still sharp enough to whisper through leather. The handle is wrapped in cracked leather, threads showing pale fraying, a brass guard etched with a faded vine that looks more like a memory than a mark of power. It feels cold to the touch, as if it has listened to too many whispered bargains in candlelight, and the map-like patina on its spine hints at a dozen hands that once trusted it to do real work. Locals tell two overlapping stories: that this dull-edged survivor was forged in a river town by a journeyman who vanished into a snow-storm of night, and that the blade carried the weight of a minor guild oath, a promise to guard a secret rather than to fell a foe. A few smiths insist the dulling came not from neglect but as a deliberate mercy, a way to teach a novice to measure effort, to learn discipline before risking the cut of a real blade. In that sense, the Dull Blade becomes a kind of character in its own right—a relic that chooses when to shine and when to listen. In gameplay terms, it’s exactly what a traveler might carry while learning the lay of the land: serviceable, inexpensive, and honest. It doesn’t pretend to be the weapon of legends, but it offers a reliable hand for early quests, a stepping-stone before more gleaming steel takes the stage. Crafters salvage it into basic components, merchants sell it for a few coppers to a curious apprentice, and players who collect remembered tools can turn it into a small, tangible memory of their first days in the markets and alleys. There’s satisfaction in its functionality as well as in its memory—that the simple act of picking up a dull blade can teach patience, aim, and even restraint. On market days, I watch the crowd drift past the stalls with their own stories. A pale ribbon of copper gleams in the sun as someone places a Dull Blade for sale, and another buyer taps a finger against the counter, calculating that the blade is worth more as a token of history than as a tool of risk. In a nod to modern habits, a quick glance at Saddlebag Exchange often confirms the going rate—one or two silver if the blade holds a gentle edge, a little more if the engravings catch the light and tell a tale. The price is never just a number here; it’s an invitation to remember where this blade found its way into the world, and where it might yet lead its next owner. When night falls, I imagine the blade crossing a campfire, weighing choices with its owner, guiding a cautious hand toward new alliances rather than slaughter.