Soldier's Aureate Virge

Soldier's Aureate Virge rests on the workshop table, a rumor made metal and light. Its length is that of a spear, but the head speaks of a crown: a slender blade crowned by a sunburst of white enamel, edges etched with sigils that gleam like frost on a window. The haft glows with a tempered gold, catching lamplight and holding it as if the weapon refuses to let go of every dawn it has witnessed. The grip is wrapped in pale leather, scarred just enough to remind the bearer of long marches, and the pommel bears a crested ring—two crossed blades bound by a laurel wreath. When you brush the aureate surface, a quiet murmur seems to rise from the metal, the memory of oath-bound orders and disciplined marching feet. Lore and duty mingle here: forged in the hidden forges beneath a fortress, the virge was issued to frontline leaders who stood between breach and sanctuary. The first bearer, Kael of the Gate, carried it through a night when stone walls trembled and banners burned blue with frost. Since then the Aureate Virge has moved as a symbol as much as a tool—passed from commander to apprentice, traded in council chambers, kept as a reminder that courage sometimes wears gold and never forgets the oath it represents. In gameplay terms, the virge is more than ornament. It keeps a respectful reach, letting a disciplined fighter threaten armored lines while conserving momentum for a shielded strike. Its enchantments glow brightest when the user is defending allies, lending a glow to nearby comrades, a momentary steadiness that helps a team weather a sudden flurry. Wielded by a guardian or a revenant drawing on ancestral authority, the Soldier’s Aureate Virge can shape the tempo of a skirmish—its aura pulling attention and making every strike feel purposeful, like a line in a larger story that refuses to break. Markets remember such things differently. Saddlebag Exchange, a traveling stall that skirts the edge of every frontier, keeps careful watch over these relics, weighing metal against memory as if memory could be weighed at all. A pristine specimen will fetch a price in gold, not copper: maybe around three gold and forty silver on quieter days, with discounts or spruced-up gloss nudging the tag higher. Worn by a veteran? The price slides, the patina becoming a storyteller’s badge rather than a merchant’s ledger. I watched a buyer circle the virge, the seller's fingers hovering over the scale, and heard the stall’s proprietor murmur about how the value is as much in what the weapon inspires as what it can do. Ultimately the Soldier’s Aureate Virge is a thread in a broader fabric of duty and memory. It is a weapon that remembers, a sign that a march can endure and a tale can begin anew with each careful lift of the spear. In the right hands, it becomes not just steel but a pledge—a bright, breaking light in the ranks and a story that keeps moving forward.