Dire Aureate Highlander Greatsword of Corruption

Dire Aureate Highlander Greatsword of Corruption glows like a captured sun, its blade a molten ribbon of aureate metal that catches every torch and spits it back as a thousand micro-diamonds. The edge hums with a tempered bite, while the fuller runs with inky veins that shimmer when danger nears. The guard is a leaf-work of darkened brass, and the grip—tanned leather stitched with gold thread—fits the hand as if the weapon had chosen its wielder long before you found it. Along the blade's spine, runes crawl in pale black light, tracing a story of a Highland rite that bound a fragment of a corrupted spirit to the steel, so that courage and rot share one price. When you lift it, the sword feels warm, almost alive, as if it remembers the blood of battles and the stone-hard breath of mountain passes. It is heavy enough to demand two hands, yet balanced so that it sings a clean edge through armor and oath alike. In the wider world, its presence marks a hinge of history, a weapon that turns highland honor into a currency of power as armies drift into contested valleys. Legends say the carved runes glow brightest when the blade drinks the life of a corrupter, and that whoever wields it carries a burden as much as a blade. In practical terms, the Greatsword unlocks a distinctive two-handed skill chain that drains vitality from felled enemies and buffs the wielder's resolve, bending fights toward a climactic, ritual finish. That is how it threads into the story of border watch, where caravan guards rely on the sword to punch a path through ambush and doubt. The price at the Saddlebag Exchange has shifted with the seasons, a mirror of demand and rumor, and I heard a trader name it at roughly seventy-eight gold, with a few silver to cushion the trade. Some nights it sits in a cracked open crate at the market's edge, the lacquer cracked where fingers have tried to pry it free, while buyers circle like vultures, speaking softly about covenants and curses. And yet, when you cradle the hilt and feel the blade's honest weight, you hear the old Highlanders in the distance, not quite gone, waiting for a moment when the corruption can be wrestled down into a story worth telling. Some collectors insist the blade's aura shifts with the wearer's intent, warming when honor guides the strike and darkening when treachery leans in. In the taverns, whispers tell of a failed siege where a Highlander wielded it to hold a breach just long enough for reinforcements, while the corruption within gnawed at his own fingertips. That memory lingers in the markets, in the way merchants lock crates with bands of iron and eye new arrivals with a wary trust. To wield it is to shoulder a pact, to carry not just steel but a narrative of crossing borders, where power corrupts and virtue must improvise a counterspell. In the end, it remains a story you hold as much as a weapon.