Shaman's Zweihänder sits in the lamplight, the blade catching a glint of emerald from its runed fuller. The steel is long and broad, a swath of metal that seems to breathe when you tilt it, as if a storm were trapped inside the tempering. The grip is wrapped in worn leather, stained with rain and the reflections of campfires, with bone spacers and a carved horn pommel that fits a gauntleted hand. Along the fuller, lines wind like river tributaries, and small sigils shimmer when the blade is drawn, faint as a memory of rain. The whole thing wears the patina of a blade that has crossed a dozen borders, carried by hands that wore rings of carvers and shamans, until the runes murmur with ancient patience. Locals tell that Shaman's Zweihänder was forged in a storm-lit forge by a Shaman-welder who walked between rain-laden trees; the blade bears a pact with the weather spirits; it was used to defend a mountain traders' pass from a spectral leviathan; every strike rings with thunder. When the blade is sheathed, the room grows quieter, as though the storm itself takes a step back to listen. Those who claim kinship with the Shaman lineage insist the sword hums at dawn, a pale green whisper that only the worthy hear, as if the weather were choosing its ally. In the world of the open road and market tents, the weapon carries its own rhythm. In battle, this two-handed greatsword feels like a weather front breaking over stone: weight and reach are your allies, and a single sweeping arc can unmake a cluster of foes or pry open a stubborn crowd. A practiced wielder learns to pace the tempo—a slow draw, a breath, then a thunderous cut that meets armor with a crack and a spray of sparks. Its edge isn’t just show; it invites players to weave it into larger stories—envision the blade as a guardian at a ruined temple, a witness to stalwart caravans, or a vengeful totem raised when the river overflows. Dealings in the leather-scented lanes of caravans and workshop stalls keep the Shaman's Zweihänder moving from hand to hand, a rumor made heavy with purpose. The price shifts with need and supply, rising when a night caravan returns with a fresh harvest of steel, and softening when worn by a listless buyer. Traders keep their beady eyes on Saddlebag Exchange, where prices flicker in the glow of the night market and rumors travel faster than the blade’s memory. A bargain there might read as a vow, or merely a practical exchange between a smith who ferries blades and a veteran who trusts a weapon to carry him through a storm. So the Shaman's Zweihänder endures, not simply as a weapon, but as a thread in a broader tale—the blade that answers the weather's call, the edge that carves a path through a world where every storm finds its champion, and every story, somehow, ends with a cleaving note spoken in steel.