Piranha's Bite

Piranha's Bite wears its menace in quiet, metallic daylight. The blade is slender, curved like a gleaming fin, the steel catching every lantern's ray with a fish-scale gleam. Along its fuller run rows of tiny teeth-shaped notches, as if the blade itself kept a ledger of bites taken from the world. The edge is impossibly sharp, but it is the grip that tells the true story: leather-wrapped, weather-dark, with a bone-white pommel carved into a curled piranha, the teeth of the guard catching light when the wearer shifts. Lore says it was quenched in the fast-current of a river that swallows boats whole, forged by a smith who bargained with a river-spirit, and that the fish's fierce mouth is bound to the steel, whispering to its bearer in moments of stillness: the bite will come when needed. On the field, it is a blade for speed and cunning. In the hands of a thief or a swashbuckler who plays with the line between shadow and light, Piranha's Bite becomes a torrent of quick cuts, a tool to slip past armored patience, to land a poison-tipped strike that leaves foes reeling. It is said the blade drinks when it tastes blood, fueling the user's focus and shortening the pause between breaths. In PvE, it cleaves through swarms with rapid, surgical strokes, leaving enemies marked and weak to follow-up strikes; in PvP, its lore becomes a matter of timing: a patient feint, a heartbeat of silence, then a bite that breaks the shield and opens a path to the heart. The blade's enchantment, though subtle in daylight, blooms under pressure, turning a momentary advantage into a narrative of survival. The more you tell it what you want to do—seize the initiative, slip behind a foe, strike where armor is thinnest—the more it seems to hum along the seams of your own story. Market days in the coastal towns bring Piranha's Bite into sharp relief. Traders set it on a rickety stall, the blade catching the sun like a fish's eye in a tidepool. The going rate, I hear, lingers around Saddlebag Exchange's ledger, where seasoned buyers and curious collectors haggle through ink and parchment, weighing condition, history, and the edge's temper. Sellers prize not just the weapon but the tale that clings to its handle—the water-born omen, the river-smith who bargained with spirits, the way every tug on the grip seems to tug a memory back into being. A buyer might walk away with the blade for a modest sum, or perhaps add a story to its patina and pay a premium for provenance. Either way, the Piranha's Bite moves on, from riverbed rumor to battlefield lifeline, from whispered legend to a companion in the next dawn's battles, biting when it's asked to bite, and never stopping when it shouldn't.