Cavalier's Verdant Mace

Cavalier's Verdant Mace gleams with a cultivated gloss of moonlit bronze, its haft wrapped in worn raton hide, the grip scarred by seasons of long rides and longer battles. The head is a broad, leaf-shaped beak of green-veined metal, inset with emerald runes that catch the light like dew on fern fronds. Ivy tendrils are etched along the sides, spiraling toward a central blossom that glints with a sap-green depth. The weapon's weight settles in the palm as if it belongs there, a companion forged from the woods that yield to the march of mounted riders. The scent is faintly resinous, a trace of pine and rain captured in the metal, as if the forest breathed out its permission to carry the weapon into town square and war-torn road alike. Lore speaks of a Cavalier order that rode under banners of evergreen, guardians who believed the forest could shield and sharpen a lance and mace in equal measure. Forged by a smith who learned to hear a tree's pulse, the Verdant Mace is said to hum when it nears old groves, as though the wood itself approves the exchange. In actual use, its swing is a measured thing, a quiet promise before the blow lands. A frontline ally feels the impact as a small, green afterglow that momentarily steadies nerves and steadies breath. The Verdant Pulse—a signature flourish whispered about in campfire tales—unfurls with each strike, releasing a short-lived herb-scented breeze that tingles the skin of nearby friends and draws attention away from the tired. It is the sort of weapon that makes a group feel as if they are moving with a single will, not a collection of individuals. For the rider who favors close combat, the mace becomes a narrative device: a way to press forward, to entwine the fight with the forest’s memory, and to remind enemies that the land itself fights back when its keepers ride with conviction. Markets tell their own stories, of course, and a blade with a history travels through caravans and stalls alike. The Saddlebag Exchange, a favored waypoint for riders and purveyors, sometimes lists a Verdant Mace among its consignments, the sale notes salted with the scent of leather and campfire smoke. Prices drift with the caravan’s route and the week’s weather, often settling around a gold and fifty silver depending on the season and the collector’s story. A buyer might hear the owner’s tale—the night the grove whispered back, the night a bowstring sang in tune with a tree’s sigh—and decide the mace is no mere tool, but a memory you can cradle in your grip. And so it passes from hand to hand, not simply as metal and wood, but as a promise that the forest’s guardians still ride at the edge of the road, blades veined with green, ready to meet the next horizon with a patient, living strength. If you happen upon this mace in a market or a lodge's display, listen to the seller's story; the Verdant Mace does not swing alone—it's a witness to the road, the grove, and the riders who kept faith with both. In your hands, it becomes a bridge between memory and stride, a green oath carried into the next evening's skirmish.