Carrion Verdant Greatsword of Water

Carrion Verdant Greatsword of Water catches the light with a sickly green luster, its blade a long, cruel arc that seems almost wet to the touch. The edge hums faintly, like a tide sliding over stone, and the spine bears a marrow-white ridge that looks as if it were carved from bone. The guard spirals outward in ripple rings, and along the fuller run tiny mossy sigils that glimmer when rain catches them. The hilt is wrapped in worn leather damp with dew, and the pommel bears a frog-shaped crest that locals swear is the sign of a pact between river and rot. The whole weapon feels ancient and barely contained, as if it carries a quiet intake of breath from a marsh that refuses to forget its dead. Lore wise, artisans say the blade was wrought on the edge of a flooded fen by a necromancer who bargained with water spirits: the verdant tint comes from algae and scavenged sap, the carrion motif from the marsh birds that feed on the fallen, and the water infusion from a spring that never dries. Wielded by those who chase both decay and renewal, it passes easily between tales of mercy and menace, a reminder that every harvest relies on the slow, patient work of rot and rain. In markets and whispers alike, singers tell of the blade choosing its owner, clinging to a hand that understands tides and time, and of a small ritual where rainwater is pressed into the blade’s marrow during a storm. In practice, the Carrion Verdant Greatsword of Water thrives in the heat of battle where the world seems to rise in damp heat. It clears a path through armored foes with heavy, decisive swings, and the water-born magic laces the strikes with a chilling sting that slows opponents and nicks their resolve as surely as it nicks their armor. Warriors who favor sundered defenses find this blade a partner, because the weapon’s kinship with moisture lends itself to the rhythm of extended engagements, while the mossy core lends a sense of continuity—like a blade that has learned to listen to rain and respond. For some, it’s a centerpiece in duels; for others, a trusted partner in long marches where thirst and rot threaten the camp. On a misty dawn, I watched a trader describe it the way gulls describe the sea: with reverence and calculation. He spoke of the blade’s draw at Saddlebag Exchange, where coin, scrapped from caravans and saved across seasons, slides across counters with stories attached. Prices hover around a couple of gold, depending on glare, provenance, and the mood of the dockside crowd, he said, tapping the ledger with a calloused finger. The blade isn’t merely metal; it’s a pact with water’s patience, a reminder that every fight is a story told in droplets and dust. And as the crowd drifted away, the sword settled back on its stand, patient as a marsh waiting for the first rain. Rain approves its fate.