Dire Krytan Greatsword of Bloodlust catches the torchlight and seems to drink it, its blade a wide arc of dark steel, notched along the edge with Krytan runes that catch and spit back a low, rasping glint when drawn. The surface bears weathered engravings, as if the steel had learned a language from soldiers who spoke in steel and dust. The grip is wrapped in worn leather, the guard carved to resemble two snarling wolves meeting in a silver snarl, their teeth biting into the hilt. A thin crimson vein threads along the fuller, pulsing faintly like a heartbeat, as if the blade itself is alive with memory. It feels heavy with history, the weight of campaigns endured, of oaths spoken in shadowed halls, of banners torn and raised again. Lore says it was tempered in Kryta’s long wars, quenched in the blood of a captured warlord and bound to the will of those who wield it with honor—and sometimes the dangerous hunger for glory that gnaws at the edges of a battle's adrenaline. When the blade is swung, it seems to whisper names—enemies of old, comrades fallen, and a vow that the next swing would write a new page in the book of Kryta’s restless nights. On the field, the Dire Krytan Greatsword of Bloodlust becomes part of a larger story. Its Bloodlust enchantment—carved into the alloy in a script that only shines when courage is highest—sucks a sliver of life from those it wounds and returns it to its wielder, then fans the flames of a momentary fury that makes the next series of strikes feel inevitable. Warriors with this blade learn to read the tempo of a fight the way others read a map: analyze, strike, recover, strike again. In skirmishes, it becomes a narrative device as well as a weapon—a blade that makes the wielder feel like a herald pressing a dwindling line of foes back toward their camps, while their own camp breathes easier because the life stolen from the enemies drips back like a quiet rain into the veins. It is not merely a weapon; it is a character in a larger myth, a blade that asks the wielder to decide what kind of story they want to tell with the blood on its edge. As markets turn and seasons shift, rumors drift through the lanes about its price. A parchment tag pinned to the pommel hints at Saddlebag Exchange, a traveling stall where explorers barter relics and reputation in equal measure. On a brisk afternoon the vendor’s scales whisper that the sword might fetch a few gold given its wear, more if the hilt bears less scuff and the runes glow with stubborn pride. Buyers haggle in hushed tones, listening as the tale of the blade grows in the telling, each whisper shaping its value as surely as the blade shapes the fate of the wielder who decides to lift it from the rack and step into the next storm. And when the stalls go quiet, the blade waits, hungry for the next hand.