The Mending Norn Greatsword of Battle shimmers as if ice were hammered into steel, the broad blade catching morning light with a cold, lucid glow. Its edge is a razor-thin gaze, blue-white and flawless, while the fuller threads a quiet current of shadow down the spine. Runes, copper-bright and pale-green, creep along the blade in winding ribbons, telling a story of storms and steadfast kin. The hilt is wrapped in dark bearskin, stitched with iron thread, and the guard fans open like twin antlers guarding a winter heartbeat. A sunstone sets in the pommel, cracked perhaps by age, but still catching and releasing a starry glimmer when the blade moves. It feels alive in the hand, each swing measured and deliberate, as if the smith tempered not only metal but intent, too. Lore clings to its name as if frost clung to a cave mouth. It was forged by a Norn smith-smith named Edda-Kai during a thaw that felt like a miracle, a blade meant to heal as much as to harm. Legends say the Mending power came from a vow spoken over the forge—that every stroke would mend fracture among comrades, soothe the fear that claws at the edges of battle, and bind warriors to one another when the world turns hostile. The sunstone, a remembered spark of a fallen chieftain, lends the weapon a quiet gravity, a memory you can feel in the weight of it, in the way it swallows sound and leaves a longer breath in the air after a swing. In the heat of combat, this greatsword doesn’t just cleave; it clarifies the field. When it bites through enemy armor, its mending aura ripples outward, nudging foes’ focus away from isolation and nudging allies toward cohesion. Those who bear it often find themselves paired with healers and guardians who optimize the weapon’s pulse, turning skirmishes into coordinated arcs of defense and recovery. The blade’s presence reshapes a fight’s tempo: a pause becomes an opportunity to rally, a stumble becomes a chance to guard, and momentum can be steadied by the very act of mending—the sense that the weapon is not simply bending the battlefield to the wielder’s will, but bending time back toward the wounded and the willing. Markets rarely hold such weapons for long, and the road between forge and field is merciless about keeping them. In the landscape’s quiet corners, traders speak of the Saddlebag Exchange where seasoned explorers trade stories, scars, and gear. It’s there that the Mending Norn Greatsword of Battle surfaces in conversation, priced in gold with the weather of the market—sometimes a little more on a brisk day, sometimes less when combatants return with weary hands. A buyer might part with a handful of rare hides, a few vials of tincture, and—if luck is kind—a sturdy portion of gold, all for the chance to cradle the sword’s cold promise once more. You can almost hear the air settle as the sheath is slid over the blade, feel the quiet gravity of history in your grip, and sense the vow: to mend what the world would otherwise break, one steadfast strike at a time.