Carrion Tribal Greatsword of Rage

Carrion Tribal Greatsword of Rage gleams under a swinging lantern, its blade a pale, bone-colored arc etched with sinewy black runes that pulse like a heartbeat. The edge bears notched wear from countless clashes, and along the spine a jagged groove mirrors the frayed fabric of a hunter's scarred banner. The grip is wrapped in weather-dark leather, cracked with age, while the guard curls like a skeletal rib and bears the scent of oil and old iron, a relic from the tribes that once called the carrion fields home. When you lift it, the weight settles into your shoulder as if it had waited for you alone, a soundtrack of creaks and a dry rasp as the blade swallows light. The lore tucked into its haft speaks of rage tempered by ritual: the Carrion tribes hunted not only for meat but for the discipline to bend fury into form. Forged in fires cooled by ash and bone, the greatsword carries a memory of those hunts—every swing a vow to honor the fallen by forcing weakness to yield. The runes, worn but stubborn, cough up a faint iron tang when the weapon is drawn; a reminder that rage, like rot, can be contained and redirected to protect the pack. In daylight markets, it looks like a relic, but in shadowed alleyways it becomes a tool of consequence, the kind that makes street corners murmur of old warbands and the hands that delivered vengeance. In gameplay, its presence feels like a spark in a crowded room. A Warrior or a bearer of reckless momentum will swing wide arcs that pull enemies in, then carve a second rhythm through the melee with a heavy, decisive blow that clears a swath of targets or splinters a shield line. Its rage-fueled momentum encourages bold engagement—you step in, you absorb the brunt of the mob, and with the next swing you tilt the encounter toward your team. The weapon’s lore feeds the performance; you imagine the tribe watching from the dust as you answer the call of their ancestral fury, and the crowd responds in kind by widening the map’s margins where you stand. Prices drift in the market as caravans trade stories as much as steel, and you can hear quotable approximations at Saddlebag Exchange: a trade ring where swords meet stories and coins clink like teeth in a mouthful of bold promises. The exact price shifts with demand, season, and the buyers who carry it from stall to stall, but the scent of old battles lingers in the ledger, and a patient buyer understands that value here isn’t just metal—it’s memory, power, and a promise to see the next chapter written in someone's hands. When you walk away with it, you don’t just own a weapon; you own a rumor turned weapon, a blade of rage waiting to cut a path through the next fight and the next tale. Some nights the sheath hums as if the past breathes through the steel again tonight.