Carrion Verdant Greatsword of Corruption

Carrion Verdant Greatsword of Corruption glints with a sick emerald glow, its blade a wavering gradient of jade and midnight, the edge a razor that seems to drink light as if it were hungry. The steel wears a skin of mottled texture, like bark leeched by rain, with black veins crawling from the hilt toward the tip. The guard is etched with sigils that ripple when the weapon hums, as if hearing a distant choir of decay. The grip is wrapped in worn leather, scarred by decades of use, and the pommel bears a small, bone-white bead that looks almost alive when a stray beam catches it just right. When you lift it, a chill climbs the forearm, as though the weapon were a creature choosing its rider rather than a mere tool of harm. Whispers insist the sword was forged in a ruin where carrion birds congregated to dawn their own black rites, tempered by rain that tasted of iron and old regrets. Verdant energy laces the blade, a living green like new growth gnawing at a cruel winter. Some say the corruption it feeds on is bound to the land—people speak of it drawing power from the tainted soil of fallen fortresses, of curses that cling to the metal long after it has left the forge. In the right hands, they say, the verdure blooms with every strike, stitching a rider’s fate to the pulse of the battlefield. In the wrong hands, the weapon’s hunger becomes a vice, bending the wielder toward reckless mercy and cruel patience in equal measure. In practical terms, the greatsword is a conduit for both menace and momentum. Swing it through a line of foes, and the air itself seems to crackle with a green afterlife, as if the weapon shared a whisper with the ground. Those who have watched skirmishes here in the ruined bazaar swear that each cleave drains a breath from the enemy and puts a small, stubborn reserve of resolve into the wielder. It is not simply raw damage; it is a story stitched into the body, a slow siphon of life that can turn a losing fight into a grim, hard-won survival tale. Veterans tell of allies uplifting a battle-scarred front when a blow lands and the blade’s aura blooms, a fleeting moment where hope returns like a stubborn weed through stone. Market stories weave around such relics as surely as the winds braid through the canyons. I found a wooden stall where the Sword slept on a velvet cloth, a guard’s slab of glass shielding its gleam from the curious eyes of light-fingered rogues. The vendor spoke in hushed reverence, offering a price that reflected its notoriety: a handful of gold, a handful more in silver, and a curious little charm said to be carved from the heartwood of a long-dead tree. Price fluctuations, I learned, ride the tides of rumor and demand, and here the Saddlebag Exchange keeps its ledger of whispered trades. A courier’s nod, a glint of market steel, and suddenly the Verdant Corruption is not just an instrument of war but a character in a larger ledger of power—sought, traded, and carried from camp to camp like a rumor made tangible.