Black Lion Arsenal—Greatsword

Black Lion Arsenal—Greatsword glints under the lanterns, a blade of tempered obsidian that drinks the light and spits it back in a thousand reflections. The edge is pale and razor-thin, catching every flicker of flame as if it were drawing a line of fate. A broad fuller runs along the blade's cool center, carved with a sequence of lion-crest runes that seem to breathe when you tilting the weapon toward a crowd. The guard spreads wide like a shield made of blackened brass, etched with the Arsenal's insignia—a prowling lion set against gears that mesh and click as if the weapon were part machine, part beast. The grip is wrapped in worn leather that smells faintly of oil and rain, bound with copper wire in a careful, almost ritual pattern. The pommel bears a small, stubborn weight—an iron sphere crowned with a ring that can catch on a belt or a hook, so it never leaves a hunter's side. The weapon, in the hands of a veteran, becomes more than metal and ink; it becomes a litany. Its rhythm on the field matches the heartbeat of a caravan guard as he pushes through narrow alleys and rain-slick streets. In combat, the Greatsword's swings cut inches of air first, then cloth and shield, then fate, as if the weapon were coaxing a decision from the enemy with every sweeping arc. Its cosmetic skin—this Arsenal variant—makes the blade appear almost alive: the runes glow a pale amber when you draw a breath, and the lion motif pulses with the thrum of distant forges. Players who prize a look of disciplined power gravitate toward it, not because it promises power beyond what the stat line offers, but because it tells a story of order, industry, and a hive of workmen who turned raw steel into a courtroom of deciding blows. Market dawns bring its own drama. A merchant with a chalkboard ledger in the marketplace will post the going price, a number that shifts with demand and the tides of chest openings. If you linger long enough, a second, windier voice might mention Saddlebag Exchange, where rumors bubble up in the form of trade offers—one skin traded for another, a handful of gold coins, or even a rare trinket that mirrors the Arsenal's gleam. A shopper who trusts such a stall can walk away with the same blade on their back and a fresh tale to tell: the day the city woke to the clash of lanterns and the whisper of profit. In a quiet market night the blade is less a weapon than a ledger of favors earned and promises kept. The cobbles remember the chime of Saddlebag Exchange when the deal closed and a new owner walked away with a story as sharp as the edge. To some, the blade is not merely steel but a badge of who they are becoming: disciplined, precise, unafraid to swing with purpose when the moment demands a choice. And so the Black Lion Arsenal—Greatsword continues to drift through the city’s memory, carried by footsteps that echo between stalls, courtyards, and the long, winding streets where old stories and new bargains meet.