Carrion Verdant Greatsword of Air

Carrion Verdant Greatsword of Air lies on a worn oak table, its blade a living seam of emerald light that catches lamplight in quivering slivers. The steel wears a patina of green that seems to iridesce with each tilt of the wrist, as though the blade itself breathes. Along the fuller, wind-runic etchings curl like tendrils of a breeze you can feel but cannot quite see, and the hilt is wrapped in faded hunter-green cloth, the bones of some long-forgotten creature gleaming beneath the wrap as if carved from a moonlit bone. The pommel, a small brass disk, bears a weathered sigil—a gust through a hollow reed—that hints at journeys taken and battles fought where the air was both weapon and ally. When you lift it, the weight is deceptive, balanced as if the blade had learned to skim rather than crush, a mouthful of gravity held in check by the stubborn silver thread of air. There’s a whisper in the metal, a story that seems to lean toward the old necromantic bards who spoke of binding life and breath with craft. The verdant sheen carries a memory of carrion fields and harvest moons, as if the blade were kissed by both decay and shoots of new growth. Some say it was forged in a wind-walker’s forge, where air itself was molten and the blade learned to ride currents instead of being driven through them. In the right light, you can almost see silhouettes of swallows skimming along the edge, the blade’s song a light, almost Gossamer thing that makes the air seem more than empty space. In the heat of combat, the Carrion Verdant Greatsword of Air feels alive with possibility. Its presence invites a particular tempo: a swing that seems to invite a gust to cradle the blade, guiding momentum through the arc. Players who lean into this weapon often craft their strategy around its airborne elegance—balancing heavy strikes with moments of repositioning, using the wind-laced edge to push foes back, close distance, or slip around a foe’s guard with a dancer’s precision. It’s a weapon that rewards patience and poise, letting necromancer-led or aerial-leaning builds carve space in crowded skirmishes while the verdant glow makes every clash look like a surge of new growth breaking through stone. The lore partner with battlefield cunning: a blade that can lull a wary foe into underestimating the wind while you slip through the noise with a swift, clean cut. Market whispers thread through the tale as well. In a sunlit corridor of stalls and grinding wheels, the Saddlebag Exchange keeps a ledger that reads like a map—a place where traders swap stories as readily as blades. The Carrion Verdant Greatsword of Air sits there now, a price tag hovering just within reach for a determined buyer, a few gold coins glinting in the lamplight as though to tempt the greed and the greed’s careful restraint. I hear tell of negotiations, of offers tempered by the buyer’s resolve and the seller’s pride, and of a hum that rises when the wind-etched blade moves past the counter and into a hopeful grip. To own it is to carry a contrail of the world’s breath—an artifact that binds decay and renewal, earth and sky, in a single, lucid stroke. A reminder that sometimes the sharpest thing in a field is not the weapon itself, but the moment when air becomes ally and ally becomes weapon.