Dire Orrian Longsword of Earth

Dire Orrian Longsword of Earth rests on a scarred oak table, its blade the color of weathered basalt and the pale sheen of moonstone caught in a storm. The steel is a deep matte graphite, veins of lighter ore tracing slow, deliberate paths along the edge as if mineral rivers carved them long ago. The edge is a whisper-thin line, sharp enough to bite through bone with patient grace. The crossguard curls into twin ridges of brass, etched with fault lines that glow faintly when the air grows damp, as if the earth were sending a message through metal. The grip is wrapped in heavy brown leather, worn by hands that learned to balance weight and will, and the pommel bears a seal—a wheeled emblem of an orrian crest half-swallowed by stone. Lore insists it was forged when mountains shifted beneath the sea, a weapon born from earth's memory, designed to anchor a warrior as the ground trembled. To hold it is to feel the floor settle under you; the sword pulls you toward center, a reminder that the earth has mass and memory. In combat, the Dire Orrian Longsword of Earth lends more than momentum: it stabilizes, channels, and punishes reckless swings. It opens space for earth-sigil builds, boosting defenses as you press forward. Its aura—subtle, almost volcanic—helps a wearer weather knockbacks and keep footing on cracked cobblestones or rain-slick ramps. The weapon favors deliberate blows that connect with the ground and reverberate into your foe; every strike lands with weight behind it, as if the wielder is a conduit for the terrain's resolve. In party skirmishes, it pairs with healers who shield the road ahead and engineers who lay earth-shocks, turning a corridor into a battlefield where terrain becomes an ally. Market days tell a different tale. I followed a navigator through the bazaar until the scent of tar and timber grew thick. Saddlebag Exchange sat at the corner, a shadowed counter where veterans haggle and apprentices listen. The Dire Orrian Longsword of Earth appeared there, priced in the gold-range—commonly around 2 gold, give or take a few silver, depending on the broker's mood and the buyer's patience. Some buyers whispered of storms averted and stones unbroken, others spoke of the thrill of owning a blade that seems to remember the planet's heartbeat. The price, negotiable as any tide, invites a careful bid, and those who linger long enough feel the crowd's geometry shifting, as if the earth itself approves a fair deal. And that is the point: a tale to be wielded, not merely displayed. Outside the market, the world still trembles—under carts and boots, under canyon thunder. The Dire Orrian Longsword of Earth remains a bridge between memory and rumor, between the stubborn stone and those who dare to swing it. A trader's whisper says the right owner will hear the earth answer back, in a tremor that steadies the hand and heart, as if the blade itself were listening for the earth's patient answer.