Carrion Glyphic Edge

Carrion Glyphic Edge rests on the butcher-block of a weathered worktable, its blade a lacquered midnight-hued steel that catches the light like a murmur in a tomb. The edge is impossibly sharp, gleaming with a frost-blue sheen, while pale veins of bone-white run along the spine in a deliberate, almost ceremonial pattern. The grip is wrapped in faded leather that's seen better days, and the guard curves like a sliver of bone, giving the impression that the weapon was designed to cradle a hand as much as it was meant to strike. If you tilt it toward the window, the glyphs etched into the fuller glow faintly, green as emerald moths, pulsing with a quiet, patient life of their own. The whole thing carries a scent of damp earth and old lantern wax, as if it remembered every hand that ever touched it, every corridor it ever crossed, every corpse that whispered its name in the dark. Lore threads through it as surely as those glyphs thread through the steel. It is said to have been forged by a circle of glyph-binders who bound death itself to a blade, coaxing a touch of necromantic power into the metal—enough to draw life from a foe with each measured stroke, enough to leave a lingering cold in the wake of a strike. The Carrion Glyphic Edge is more than a weapon; it is a memory etched in iron, a relic of a time when words and runes could braid a field of the dead into a line of defense or a line of assault. In the right hands, its edge whispers of cemeteries at dawn and of parley in the shadowed corners of a ruined fortress, where the living barter with the dead for a chance to walk away with a story that still has teeth. In practical terms, the blade has a reputation for changing the rhythm of a fight. Wielders speak of the way it seems to drink the vigor from a target, feeding a quiet surge of resilience back to the user and sharpening focus at the moment a duel reaches its apex. It shines brightest in close quarters, where the glyphs flare and the necromantic current hums along the blade’s spine, weaving into condition damage and providing a steady cadence that can outlast a skirmish. For necromancers and revenants, it’s a partner in a larger tale—one that blends curses, lifeforce, and the artful restraint of a craftsman who knows when to strike and when to listen. In patrols and fractals alike, it’s the kind of weapon that turns a narrow corridor into a corridor of memory, where every swing writes a line in the story of the battle. Market days, of course, keep the story honest. I found it on a stall near a quiet river market, where a leather-and-brass trader spoke in a voice marked by sand and rain. The Saddlebag Exchange—that mobile, caravan-hauling outpost of second chances and well-worn bargains—had people haggling with calm, practical energy. The vendor quoted a price that hovered in the tens to low hundreds of gold, depending on demand, mood of the market, and whether you could trade a small cache of bone charms or a few ember crystals as part of the deal. The right counteroffer could seal the sale, a quiet handshake as the knives of light shifted and the glyphs seemed to nod in approval. So the Carrion Glyphic Edge sits, not simply as a tool, but as a chapter—a blade that remembers its dead and asks the living to remember too. A piece of a larger world where every edge bears a story, and every story, in turn, sharpens the blade a little more.