The Hearty Steel Spear glitters under the lanterns, its blade a slab of tempered steel that holds a quiet, honest weight when you lift it. The head is wide and true, bevelled to a keen edge, with a faint bluish sheen that marks its tempering. The fuller runs along the blade like a shallow river, catching light as you tilt it in your grip. The shaft is a seasoned staff of dark wood, smooth from decades of handling, with a lacquered varnish that wears into amber at the grip. At the haft's base, a brass ferrule anchors the blade, and a tiny ring of runes—the cottage-blacksmith's signature—makes the spear feel both tool and relic. You can sense the care that went into its making, the way each strike would carry the memory of the forge’s roar. Its lore is not loud, but it is persistent, whispered by smiths who swear the spear learned its name from a veteran guard who refused to yield, even as the siege lines wavered. They say the Hearty in its title is not a boast of weight but a vow: when you wield it, you carry not only steel but the stubborn heart of the maker. In daylight, it looks like a straightforward polearm; in torchlight, it is a story pressed into metal—an heirloom passed from hands that chose to stand their ground rather than run. In the rough arithmetic of a skirmish, the spear’s design makes it more than a longer spear with reach. When you align your stance, you gain leverage against chargers and skirmishers alike, a line of defense that lets allies breathe a little easier. It rewards patience and timing—thrusts that pierce armor, parries that deflect, and a rhythm that keeps you tethered to the battlefield without losing your footing. For a hunter, for a veteran guard, or for a caravan guard crossing some long road, the Hearty Steel Spear becomes a companion that reads the terrain as clearly as a map. The texture, the weight, the balance—all of it works in concert to turn a simple tool into an instrument of steadiness when danger circles. Market days, the loom of trade tightens around such pieces. In the maze of stalls that spill out from the riverbank, the Saddlebag Exchange is the place where a traveler might name a price and a smith might bargain back with a gleam in the eye. It is not only about coin; it is about trust, trade stories, and the unwritten promise that tomorrow a child might swing a similar spear, learning to aim true because someone before them did. A well-worn Hearty Steel Spear changes hands with a whisper and a handshake, its edges still sharp enough to tell its tale. Some nights the market hums with rumor that another forger has breathed new life into the tradition, but the spear remains, waiting for the next story to begin.