Permanent Honor Guard Finisher

Permanent Honor Guard Finisher glows with a frost-blue edge, a slender ceremonial blade of tempered dusk-steel whose surface is etched with the Honor Guard’s griffin and a thread of pale gold that travels along the edge like a quiet river of memory. The grip is wrapped in deep crimson leather, scuffed from ages of ceremonial use, and the pommel bears a tiny etched sigil that fans out when the light catches it. It feels cool and heavy in the hand, cooler still when you listen to the faint, sighing hum that runs along the blade’s spine—almost a whisper of oath and duty. Lore says it was forged not for glory alone but to bind a vow: to seal a foe’s fate with a single, decisive gesture and to remind the living of the names they carry—the names of those who stood watch so others could walk safely through the night. In this sense the Finisher isn’t merely a tool of closure; it’s a relic that lends weight to every triumph, a tangible reminder that a battle’s memory deserves a careful, ceremonial burial. In practice, the finisher becomes part of a larger story you tell on the field. When the moment is right, you lift the blade and turn the air into a canvas, a brief, radiant sigil blooming above the defeated foe. The emblem—an intertwining of griffin wings and a laurel—shimmers, then settles into a soft blue haze that lingers for a breath before fading. It’s less about brutal efficiency and more about commemorating resolve: the moment you choose to honor a fallen ally, or to mark a hard-won victory against a stubborn foe. The Finisher’s permanence matters in this world of vanishing marks and ephemeral triumphs; its name seems to insist that certain commitments deserve a lasting echo, even if the battlefield itself is only a memory by dawn. That sense of ongoing presence bleeds into gameplay in two subtle but meaningful ways. First, the Finisher is a rare cosmetic that you can unleash again and again, each use a small, cinematic ceremony that punctuates the end of a skirmish with a shared sense of history. Second, because it is described as permanent, it fits neatly into the role of a legacy item—one that players pass down in stories and chat, a token of endurance rather than a one-off spectacle. You aren’t merely turning an enemy to ground; you’re adding to the legend you’re building alongside your companions, a walking badge of the vows you’ve kept. I heard whispers of Saddlebag Exchange when I asked about a reliable way to trade for it. A weathered vendor named Rollo, perched at a sun-warped stall, told me the Finisher had seen a price rise since the last festival, with listings curling around the silver line of 1 to 2 gold depending on who was hawking it and how strongly the market believed in its continued prestige. Saddlebag Exchange, he said, is where memory and market meet—where banners of the past pass into hands that will carry them forward. The Finisher’s value, then, isn’t just measured in coins but in the weight of the oath it carries, the story it helps you tell, and the vigilance it invites you to keep for those who walk beside you.