Commander's Dragon Slayer Focus

Commander's Dragon Slayer Focus sits in the hand like a cooled ember. Its shell is tempered iron, curved and strong, with a spine of bronze rivets and a central crest that catches the light. The grip is wrapped in worn leather, and at its heart a carnelian orb glows with a patient, inner fire when attuned to dragon-sigil energy. Obsidian scales run along the length, each scale edged with gold filigree, so that in motion the focal piece seems to flash with a tiny, dragon-lit heartbeat. A dragon’s head is carved near the top arch, eyes set with ruby droplets that glitter when danger nears. When the sun hits it just so, the engraved scales shimmer like embers in a forge, and the whole thing feels as if it might whisper a strategy in your ear if you listen closely. The lore tied to this focus is as old as the patron saints of the forward lines, a relic said to come from the Dragon-Hunters who stood between the world and the elder serpents when the skies were ash. It is said the dragon in question bound its breath to the bearer’s will, not to burn, but to burn away doubt—giving courage to stand where the smoke makes it hard to breathe. In practice, the Commander's Dragon Slayer Focus channels that memory into the fight. It isn’t a weapon for brute force; it’s a conduit for the moment when a charge must be reined in and safety must be carved out of chaos. Those who wield it feel a tightening in their stance, a brief but potent shield that appears around allies, and a flash of precision that makes stray shots fall back into rhythm. It’s not merely a stat stick; it’s a pulse of the older age, guiding decisions in the heat of dragonbreath and crumbling stone. In field markets and tavern whispers alike, people talk about the price as much as the legend. A vendor’s tag at Saddlebag Exchange will often hint, in careful script, that the Dragon Slayer Focus is worth five gold and a handful of silver, a sum that makes even veteran hunters pause to measure what it represents beyond coin. Yet buyers know there’s more than metal and glow; there’s the shared risk of a world where a single misstep can invite ruin, and the sense that such a relic is a loan from a past where courage could be minted in steel. So the focus passes from hand to hand, traded with stories as much as value, as the next commander steps forward with a plan, eyes bright and steady, and the dragon’s shadow looms large over the road ahead. Some nights the focus rests on a mantle back home, waiting for the call to march again. Others trade hands beneath the glow of campfires, turning fear into purpose and turning purpose into the next long night of patrol. Its glow remains a quiet prompt in the dark. Always there, when the drums roll and the dragons lift their heads.