Carrion Mithril Hammer rests on the workshop table like a fossil unearthed from a long-quiet ruin. The head is a pale slab of mithril, cool to the touch, with a texture that catches lamplight in a way that makes every strike seem to echo through iron and bone alike. Runes are etched along its sides in a pale, almost ghostly green, and the surface bears tiny pits and scars as if the metal itself remembers the forge’s heat and the scavenger’s rain. The edges gleam with a brutal, tooth-like serration, notched as if the tool learned to bite through armor and sinew in equal measure. The haft is wrapped in cracked leather, dyed a midnight-brown, with threads of copper wire binding the grip and a small ring at the butt that once hung from a belt or a scavenger’s strap. A faint aroma—metal, leather, and something faintly antiseptic—lingers around it, a reminder that this hammer has tasted more hands than a single smith’s. Its lore threads through shipyards and ruined abbeys, where carrion cults once whispered over pits of rot and bone, trying to coax resilience from decay. They spoke of binding life to metal, of stealing momentum from rot and turning it into purpose. The hammer’s legend grew with every rumor of troops marching through marshes, with every siege where the dead were pressed into service and laid to rest again only after a blow that changed a battlefield’s memory. Makers who adore its lineage insist that the weapon is not merely forged iron but a history pressed into a single, decisive swing. When it meets the air, it seems to carry the weight of old treaties and broken banners folded into its head, as if the old world itself leaned in to witness the next chapter. In practice, the Carrion Mithril Hammer has a reputation for delivering heavy, satisfying blows—perfect for breaking lines, cracking shields, and creating openings for allies who know how to move with the tremor of a devastating strike. It feels balanced for a confident rhythm, a weapon that rewards patience as much as force. Veterans tell stories of how its glow grows stronger in the presence of necromantic energy, almost coaxing a patient reader of battlefield flows to anticipate the next turning point. For those who weave condition damage and direct engagement, the hammer offers more than raw power; it offers a narrative thread—an instrument that helps shape a fight into a story of turning tides. Prices drift through the stalls like a breeze through a harbor at dusk, and the Saddlebag Exchange is where the old stories meet the new buyers. A well-worn flyer in the market-aisle will remind you that the price is never fixed—the hammer moves with rumors, runes, and the season’s scarcity. A good specimen, fully documented and cared for, might fetch several gold coins, or a trade involving rare leathers, relic components, and a handful of silver for the right seam of a dealer’s ledger. A younger buyer might walk away with a bargain, two or three gold and a promise to fetch a few components in return; an older hand, rarer still, might swing the deal into the realm of legend. So the Carrion Mithril Hammer continues to drift through memory and marketplace alike—an artifact that clings to the world’s edges, a heavy reminder that in some places, power is less a spark and more a calculated, iron-tuned rhythm.