Strong Iron Greatsword of Debility gleams with a dull iron luster, its broad blade carved with frostlike runes and a keen edge that seems to drink light rather than reflect it. The grip is wrapped in cracked leather that smells of rain and old smoke, the metal guard a crescent that catches every candle’s glow and rakes it away in a dozen tiny sparks. When it rests on a table, the steel wears its scars like a veteran’s medal: a nick near the fuller, a notch where a toe of boot once dragged in a rush of combat. The sheath is a casing of blackened wood bound with rivets, and the whole thing hums faintly when the air tightens, as if listening for the drumbeat of distant marches. There’s a story in the hilt—glyphs pressed into the metal to counterbalance the blade’s weight, a whispered promise to the bearer that every swing will carry more than force, but a toll. Lore has it this sword was tempered in a winter siege where tempers froze as quickly as rivers, forged by a smith who swore to temper more than steel—to temper resolve. They say the Debility in its name is not merely a tag line but a ritual of the blade’s lineage: a slow, patient pressure that unsettles the will as surely as it splits iron. Soldiers claimed that, in the right hands, the weapon would not only cut armor but unspool a foe’s nerve enough to loosen the tight knots of fear and hesitation that gather in the chest before a clash. It’s the kind of relic that shows up in campfire chatter and the dreams of recruits: a blade that does not just wound but unsettles where combat begins—inside the mind, where doubt hides in a soldier’s breath. In practice, the Strong Iron Greatsword of Debility invites a different rhythm to the battlefield. Its owner learns to weave tempo with the blade’s pulse, trading raw brawn for a patient chain of strikes that bend a line of foes toward vulnerability. A single swing can drop a guard into a longer, slower fight, while a charged cleave fans Debility like a wind that saps momentum from advancing ranks. It is not a weapon for the reckless; it rewards the patient, the strategist who reads the tableau—the way a frontline shifts as a squad repositions, or how a lone enemy breaks from a phalanx under a sudden, chilling reminder that endurance can be sapped as surely as armor. Market rumors breathe through the road-weary traders and the whispering wagons at dawn. I’ve heard tell that Saddlebag Exchange, that shifting bazaar of barter and barterers, harbors more than stories about this blade; it harbors the price as it climbs and falls with the moon. A stack of emerald ore for a few hours of a smith’s time, a trove of rare hides, a map inked with old routes—each tag in the ledger shifting as the crowd shifts. The sword’s worth isn’t fixed; it follows the pulse of necessity, the demand of mercenaries, and the wandering taste of collectors who want not just to own a weapon but to claim a memory made sharp. So it rests in the hands of its bearer, bearing a weight that is as much history as heft, a tool that does not merely carve space in a fight but leaves the room listening for what it has taken and what it may give back.