Storm of the Lion's Champion

Storm of the Lion's Champion lies on storm-washed velvet, its blade a ribbon of twilight steel that drinks light and spills it back as rain. The edge shimmers with pale electric blue, and a fuller carved with wind-run patterns runs its length. A gold-inlaid lion's crest coils around the hilt, the grip wrapped in worn leather braided with copper thread. On the pommel a tiny storm-globe pulses, as if a captured thundercloud refused to leave. Touch it and the air cools; swing it and the blade sings, a low, rolling note that echoes distant thunder. Lore whispers that this storm was forged when the Lion’s Arch guardians faced a hurricane summoned by sea-spirits beneath the harbor. The champion who wielded it stood where the breakwater meets rain, and when the wind died, the storm stitched itself into steel. Since then the blade has crossed many hands, marking the city’s memory in its edge: bravery under impossible odds, a roar that could not be silenced, a promise that storms can be turned to shield and spear. In skilled hands it is more than ornament; it becomes a rhythm in battle. A sweeping arc splits crowds and, timed right, pours lightning down the line, chaining to nearby foes as if the air itself snags their hopes. The blade’s aura—nicknamed the Lion’s Roar by veterans—buffs allies with a surge of resolve, granting swifter strikes and steadiness before the next clash. Those who chase it speak of synergy with banners and the danger of overcommitment. For raiders and guardians alike, Storm of the Lion's Champion invites risky, decisive play—high reward when the storm is ridden to the end. Markets in brighter mornings hum with stories as much as sales, and the Saddlebag Exchange draws an eager crowd. A dealer calls the blade a relic of a time when the Lion’s roar bent weather, and the price shifts with every whispered bid. The tag reads around sixty-eight gold, though a practiced hand might coax it up or down. A buyer’s coffer, a seller’s patience, and a little luck at Saddlebag Exchange decide who walks away with the storm. Still, the blade is more than a tool of profit; for collectors, it is a promise kept, a vow to remember. It reminds hands that fear can be tempered, and that a champion’s weapon can become a chorus gathering the crowd when doors close and waves rise. I carried it toward the harbor, and in that moment the blade seemed to pulse with a knowledge older than any tale: storms pass, but the lion’s memory lingers in steel and in those who still choose to stand and swing. On nights when harbor fog clings to the quays and rain drums against the boards, the Storm of the Lion's Champion is not merely steel but a reminder: every storm leaves behind something bright and durable, something that can guide strangers back to shore. That memory travels with you, whispering courage to every new dawn. And ready to strike.