Obliterator

Obliterator sits on a scarred worktable, its blade a slab of midnight that catches the light in razor-thin slivers. The steel wears a lattice of runes along the fuller, each glyph etched with patient care and still softly warm from the last forging. The grip is wrapped in worn leather, slick with oil and old sweat, the metal fittings scarred from decades of use. When you tilt it toward a lamp, the edge seems to drink the flame, turning it from ordinary steel to something sharper in mood than in metal. The blade carries a rumor of the old war over the Ashford frontier, a memory pressed into its core by a smith who swore the weapon had eyes for armor and a patience for the long, slow break of will. Some tell it hums when it senses unbelievers in the crowd, others say it simply waits, patient as a river, for the moment to open a path through the chaos. On the field, Obliterator is not just a blade; it is a promise to end a siege of armor, to carve through the thickest armor, its strikes puncturing defenses that would shrug off other weapons. Legends say it amplifies the wielder's momentum, turning every swing into a statement of inevitability. When paired with decisive, patient play, it can shift a skirmish from a stalemate to a march. In the hands of a veteran, its roar is less a sound and more a disruption—an opening exploited with a measured breath and a follow-up that takes down a frontline with surgical clarity. At Saddlebag Exchange, the blade's rarity shows up on the trading posts. A vendor's ledger glinted under lantern light, listing Obliterator at a price that rose and fell with the rumor of a new expedition. Buyers speak of it as a centerpiece in a plan: bring it to a hardened plaza, study the foe, plan a spear's end strike. Truth be told, the price is not static; it dances with scarcity and demand, with whispers of a caravan raid or a newly mapped dungeon. The stall-keepers keep a wary eye on the ledger, trading tales as freely as coins, and buyers lean in as if the blade's next owner will write a new chapter in its saga. The blade belongs to the world as much as to the owner; it changes hands, shapes rumors, and writes a line in the weather whenever a siege ends or a village breathes again. If you ask the old smiths, Obliterator remembers their names too, though they will not tell you which. Some nights the balcony of the harbor carries the scent of oiled leather and a burnt edge of magic, and if you listen closely you will hear the blade whisper a welcome. To own it is to shoulder a stewardship, a promise to protect the vulnerable while knowing every swing might redraw a border. In hours after a fight, its weight sits at the hip like a remembered oath, waiting for next call.