Carrion Aetherized Greatsword

Carrion Aetherized Greatsword catches the light with a pale, sickly glow that seems to come from within the steel itself. The blade is broad and long, the edge gleaming like winter glass, while a frost-blue sheen crawls along the fuller as if something unseen slides beneath the metal. Veins of argent green pulse along the spine, and when you hover your hand over it you can feel a faint tremor, as if the weapon remembers every hand that weighed it down before you. The crossguard looks carved from bone—arched ribs sealed into a protective crescent, the sigils on them flickering faintly whenever the aetheric hum rises. The grip is wrapped in leather the color of old parchment, worn smooth by years of contact, and the pommel bears a tiny skull that catches the light and spits out a tiny mote of green dust with every careless breath. Legends tether it to a rite performed by an order that sought to barter mortality for memory. They believed that carrion could be transmuted into something that guards the living man or woman who wields it, turning decay into discipline and fury. The weapon does not crave blood so much as discipline its bearer; it offers a brutal bargain: power for vigilance, sorrow for strike. On the battlefield, the Carrion Aetherized Greatsword feels like carrying a storm in your hands. The first swing splits the air with a heavy, earthbound arc; the second follows with a cleaner, almost surgical cut that seems to skim through opponents' guard. Its aetheric glow is not merely show; it braids with vitality in a way that makes lifeforce feel tangible. A number of veterans claim that each clean, sweeping cut leaves a momentary echo—a breath you can count—the sense that you have traded a portion of your own endurance for momentum, and that momentum is what keeps you moving through a fight you should not survive. Market stories circle the weapon as they circle any rumor in a sun-worn plaza. A dealer in the Saddlebag Exchange once whispered that the blade could be priced into reach for the right buyer—not by sheer wealth, but by knowing where to stand when the day is hottest and the coins are scarce. A trade might be sealed with a handful of salvaged relics, a gold coin or two, and a promise to seek out a witness for the weapon's past. The negotiation, like a duel of words, matters as much as the edge itself, for the sword's legend is stitched into every exchange. Take it up, and you step into a larger story—the world has always been taught to fear what it cannot yet master, and this blade is a pointer, a reminder that mastery may come not from the absence of danger but from the willingness to stand in its glow. For those who bear it, the road never ends: every skirmish becomes a ledger, every shadow a reminder that power carries responsibility and a tremor of mercy within.