Assassin's Volcanic Stormcaller Dagger

The Assassin's Volcanic Stormcaller Dagger gleams when drawn, a slender blade of obsidian edged with a ribbon of molten gold that seems to pulse with internal heat. Its surface is a puzzle of texture: mirror-slick on the blade, rough ash-gray leather around the grip, and a guard etched with tiny jagged volcanoes. The pommel bears a cloud-shaped cap carved from a pale metal that glints with ember specks, as if hot coals breathe beneath the shine. Lore says it was forged in the mouth of a sleeping volcano by a guild of stormcallers who believed a thief could borrow the mountain's rage for a single, decisive strike. In your hand it feels almost alive; the heat is a rumor at first, then a steady whisper traveling up the forearm as you tilt toward a target. The grip hints stealth as a craft, and the runes along the blade glow with copper light when danger nears. It carries a faint ozone scent when drawn, like rain on warm stone. The sheath is lined with charred velvet, and the belt clip bites the leather with a tiny claw. In combat the dagger is a conductor of weather, not just a weapon. It favors fast, disciplined motions and rewards positioning—backstabs slip past guard and invite a small storm to erupt. On a critical strike, a ring of warm sparks fans out and scorches nearby foes. The Volcanic Stormcaller laces its strikes with Burning and Bleeding, shaping the scene and giving the party an edge while the air grows heavy, as if a storm gathered beyond the horizon. It is not merely about damage; it reshapes the field, letting precision carve openings while the crowd gasps for breath and the rain-warmed air thickens into almost tangible heat. That is why the dagger carries more than a kill count; it carries a story of roads through lava vents and alleys where storms were coaxed to listen. I watched a crew barter for it in a dim corner of the market district, where lantern light flickered on damp stone and whispers rose with every trade. They spoke of the dagger’s loyalty to a restless weather, and of how it could turn a chase into a wind-swept exit. In the marketplace, Saddlebag Exchange became a chorus of numbers: listings hovering between nine and twelve gold, with the occasional bold bid inching toward thirteen or fourteen. A few collectors swore they felt the blade breathe when held, and a few thieves swore they heard distant thunder whenever it sang for blood. Sellers trade not only for gold but for stories of where the storm led them before. A hush falls when the auction ends and the dagger passes to a new owner. Perhaps the most honest truth is this: the Assassin's Volcanic Stormcaller Dagger wants to be used, to carve a path through smoke and steel, to remind everyone that storms come not from the weather alone but from the choices made in that fleeting moment between strike and retreat. And yet, for all the market talk, the blade's destiny remains tied to the user—the one who chooses whether to shelter the world from flame or light a path through it.