Carrion Verdant Warhammer of Corruption

Carrion Verdant Warhammer of Corruption gleams with a sickly emerald light, its head a jagged promontory of bone and tarnished iron. The surface is rough as rotted bark, pitted from countless strikes, with veins of mossy green energy tracing restless rivers along the metal. The haft is wound in cracked leather, the stitching worn to threadbare lines, and runes glow faintly along the grip—signs whispered to be old necromantic sigils that remember more battles than the wielder can recount. The texture hints at cold marble and warm rot-soil, and a sour, rain-washed scent clings to the air whenever it breathes. Lore says it was hammered in a field where carrion crows feasted on omen-bones, a relic tempered by plague and memory. In combat, its aura slithers along the ground, drawing enemy attention while siphoning vitality from those who clash with it. The hammer's corruption breathes through steel and sinew, turning blows into conditions that gnaw at defenses; a whispered curse blooms after impact, leaving a trail of green rot on armor and ego alike. Wielders learn to time their strikes to the weapon’s patient rhythm, bargaining with decay, for the more they pour into it, the more the world tilts toward rot. Yet the hammer is not mere destruction: it marks focal points for factions seeking to seal or exploit corrupt power, a dagger buried in contested fortresses where healers and necromancers watch each other nervously. On market tables, the Saddlebag Exchange hums with the quiet hurry of traders and dreamers who crave something that speaks of fall and regrowth in the same breath. A tag lists the Carrion Verdant Warhammer at 1 gold and 32 silver, a price that makes the room lean in as if the coin itself holds its breath. I watched a skald barter for it with a pouch of lotus petals and a cracked charm, the vendor tracing a finger along the weapon and muttering about "green promises and broken bargains." The exchange is never clean; it is a corridor of rumor where a weapon’s story travels faster than a caravan. Prominent families sometimes entrust such items to carriers who know the road between plague zones and sanctified walls, hoping the weapon will cut through the fog of time and remind their banners what it means to win with a price. The Carrion Verdant Warhammer of Corruption is more than metal: it is a knot in the city’s memory, tying debt, desire, ruin, and renewal. Those who clutch it speak in half-truths about its thirst—whether for blood or balance—and, in the telling, the world around them shifts as if every strike is a page turned in a living epic. To hold it is to acknowledge a hunger you might never satisfy, yet to let go too soon is to watch a disease escape into your hands. The weapon’s verdant glow recedes and returns, a patient green pulse that keeps time with the wielder’s heart, until a wiser story steps forward to claim it. Its history lingers wherever courage and temptation meet.