Assassin's Tengu Echo Scepter rests in light, waiting for a whispered command. Its shaft is carved from ebony wood, smooth to the touch, with grooves that catch the lamp and glow like constellations. The head curves into a beak, edged in brass, with turquoise inlays catching the eye, like eyelets in feather-work. Runes along the grip whisper as you breathe; tengu feathers along the pommel carry memories of silence kept and strikes delivered. It feels light, and the weight becomes a quiet promise: a weapon that speaks in soundless, careful moments. Legends say the blade was forged by tengu smiths who traded secrets with wind spirits—a weapon that learns a room's stillness and chooses its moment. The 'Echo' in its name isn't flourish; it's literal: each swing releases a ghostly ripple that repeats the strike twice more, as if a chorus of shadows mimics the move behind your own. In practice, that means a single attack can become a small chain: first flash, then two follow-ups that can clip foes from different angles, letting you weave through alleys or lunge through a skirmish with a dancer's rhythm. When paired with tricksters' arts—illusions that bend perception, or stealth that turns you to a whisper—the Scepter's echoes pull enemies into the same breath, blistering them with simultaneous impacts and stacking conditions before they realize the wind had a voice. From a player's perspective, the scepter asks you to choreograph movement: step, swing, vanish, reappear with the second echo already carving through a second foe. The bonus effects—poison, bleeding, or confusion depending on modifiers—feel less like a stat line and more like a tale you tell with the air around you. The Assassin's Tengu Echo Scepter becomes a companion in a larger narrative about risk, timing, and the city’s impatient hustle: a blade that enforces patience, a weapon that rewards those who wait for the echo to finish its song before the curtain falls. Prices drift in market docks and backroom stalls, and Saddlebag Exchange has it listed beside other exotic whisper-weapons, the clerk's hands moving with practiced care as he slides the scepter along velvet. He notes the patina, the inlays, the weathered runes, and quotes a price that factors in its lore as much as its edge. A few coins here, a trade there, and the buyer walks away with more than metal; they inherit a rumor of the tengu's oath and a device that remembers every step you take in a hunt. The more savvy buyers know to haggle, to request a maintenance rite, and to trade for upgrade runes that sharpen the echoes. By the time night crowds blur into the harbor lights, the Assassin's Tengu Echo Scepter is not merely a weapon. It's a story carried in a sleeve of lacquer—wind, wing, and word—about a silent order that favored precision, about a city that never stops moving, about a world where every strike leaves room for the next to arrive in the breath after. Its legend travels faster than rumor across the docks.