Eiron, Bellowing Grief of Severance

Eiron, Bellowing Grief of Severance sits on a narrow pedestal, a greatsword of midnight steel cradled in worn velvet. The blade drinks light, a pale liquid of ink-black metal that seems to cough when the torchlight catches its edge. Along the fuller, runes coil like smoke, shallow as rain on slate, and when you tilt it just so you can hear a faint, sighing hum—the sound of a crowd parted, of oaths broken, of doors left ajar in a corridor of memory. The grip is wrapped in cracked leather that smells of rain and old oil, and the guard looks as if a clasp once held it together now lies in shards, as if the blade itself refused to be neatly bound. At the pommel a carved sigil—two hands parting in a grave, almost tender gesture—reminds you that severance is never clean. Lore threads pull tight around its name. Eiron, it is said, was a master who forged bonds between enemies—forged ones, at least—until a single betrayal unstitched a treaty and shattered a city’s quiet. The weapon is whispered to remember every severed vow, every promise torn in the heat of negotiations, and to taste the grief of those left standing in the ruins. Some smiths claim the blade thirsts for the weight of a broken oath, others that it offers a grim mercy, a way to cut free tainted loyalties without paying for them in blood alone. In taverns a tale will drift of a captain who carried it through a blackout storm of sieges, and of how the blade seemed to weep with the people who stood behind him, as if it grew heavier with each oath he refused to betray. In the world, its significance in combat and consequence are inseparable from the story it carries. Those who wield Eiron describe a presence that seems to tilt the air, a pressure of old grief that concentrates in the strike and then dissipates, leaving a momentary silence after impact. It is said to pierce through stubborn wards and to bend the momentum of a melee toward the bearer’s purpose, a blade that makes the act of cutting feel like unsealing a locked chest rather than spilling blood. Practitioners speak of timing—how the weapon’s whisper grows loudest when a decision weighs most heavily—to translate sorrow into resolve, fear into clarity, and hesitation into a decisive arc of steel. The blade does not merely harm; it lends weight to a choice that could redefine a battlefield or a long-sober treaty. Market whispers carry the blade, too, and the tale of its price rides across the markets like a stubborn rumor. If you wander past the stalls and into Saddlebag Exchange, you’ll hear traders trade stories as much as steel—lists flicker on cards, and the price of Eiron shifts with the mood of the crowd, the season’s festival fever, and the weight of recent betrayals in the world’s memory. Some listings hover in the stratosphere; others dip as collectors bargain for mirrors of the past, hoping to place a sign of absolution in their own hands. Either way, the Bellowing Grief of Severance remains less a weapon than a memory made tangible—an artifact that takes its bearer forth into a story where every severed tie echoes back, shaping what comes next.