Recipe: Ruka's Claymore sits on a sun-bleached desk, its parchment surface curling at the edges like tide-worn kelp, inked lines tracing a blade that gleams with a frost-blue glint even in dim light. The drawing shows a broad double-edged sword, a fuller running down the center like a river, the crossguard sculpted as if carved from driftwood and etched with star-runic glyphs. The hilt is wrapped in supple black leather, aged to a patina, and copper rivets pin the grip tight as if to keep a secret in place. The pommel carries a tiny relief—a fox's head in profile—symbol of quick minds and sharper tempers, a nod to Ruka, the smith whose workshop once echoed through the harbor warehouses. The paper smells of rain, oil, and the faint tang of copper, a tactile reminder of hands that have trusted this formula to shape steel into something more than tool. Legends say Ruka tempered these blades with a moonlit pour, coaxing a cold edge that bites with precision and a heartbeat that mirrors the ocean's own rhythm. In the world, this recipe is less a recipe and more a promise—a blueprint that unlocks the rite of crafting a claymore worthy of a captain, a duelist, or a caravan guard who demands both reach and resilience. When a smith cracks open the leather-bound pages and lays the plan onto a forge, the claymore that emerges carries not just steel and heat, but a lineage. Its blade can cleave armor with a single, practiced sweep, yet remains light enough for patient, long-form parries. Players who wield it speak of the weapon's balance: a blade that feels like it grew from the arm, not the arm from the blade. It becomes the kind of tool that earns its keeper a story to tell at the end of a long day, a weapon that seems to breathe with the night winds. Between markets and midnight camps, the recipe travels as trade winds do. If you seek the recipe itself, you listen for the quiet rumor in a tavern, and you may find a copy tucked into a pack by a trader who calls Saddlebag Exchange his second home. Prices drift with the mood of the day: a handful of gold when demand surges among gladiators and night-market smiths, a more modest sum when commoners dust off old plans to craft simpler weapons. The true value, of course, lies in what the recipe unlocks: the possibility to forge a weapon that becomes part of a larger tale—a blade that lights up in ambushes, that carries a veteran's memory into the next raid, that helps a fledgling smith prove their mettle to a skeptical guild. And so the paper sits in a crowded belt pouch, gleaming faintly whenever the campfire catches the edges, a small artifact that ties craft, commerce, and combat into one continuous thread. Each strike from a Ruka's Claymore-wielding ally is a stanza in a longer epic: a reminder that recipes are not merely instructions, but invitations—into markets, into battles, into a culture that prizes the patience to forge something beautiful from the charcoal and the salt.