Rampager's Iron Greatsword of Blood glints under a dim lantern, a broad blade forged from iron whose surface wears a lacquered sheen like dried blood. The fuller snakes along the steel, etched with sigils that catch the torchlight and pulse faintly when the blade nears a foe. The grip is wrapped in tanned leather as dark as a raven’s wing, and the pommel bears a chipped emblem—a stylized fang set in iron that seems to drink the light. Every detail feels tempered by a dozen campaigns: scars on the guard, a thumb-sized nick near the edge where a desperate parry left its mark. You lift it, and the weapon settles in your hand as if it remembers every strike, every retreat, every decision that carried a life or loss. But the Iron Greatsword is more than iron and memory. In the field, its edge carries a taut promise: quick, decisive chops that bite through mail and resolve alike. The rampager’s creed—unyielding pressure, relentless pursuit—seems to breathe from the blade, as if the iron itself learns to anticipate a foe’s feints. When the blade finds its mark, a faint crimson mist clings to the edge, and veterans report a sense that blood fuels the weapon’s next breath. It shines brightest in close-quarters chaos: a crowded doorway, a narrow ramp, a clash where the battlefield narrows to a single heartbeat. The greatsword thrives on momentum—each two-handed swing a drumbeat that knocks guards off their rhythm and opens a path for allies to press their advantage. In the lore-laden lanes of mercenaries and skirmishers, Rampager’s gear is a declaration: the wielder is not cautious but forge-born, a hammer that breaks hesitation. The Iron Greatsword of Blood is said to have been tempered beneath a battlefield lantern’s glow, with flames that fed its appetite for order amid the chaos. Tales drift along harbor walls of a hunter who wore this blade through sieges and night marches, leaving sparks and stories in their wake. The weapon’s presence on a character sheet hints at a larger narrative—the kind of saga where blood and iron measure courage, where a single swing can tilt a skirmish and a single choice can alter a route. Prices drift with the tide, whispered through stalls and along riverboats. Traders trade rumors as readily as coin, and the Saddlebag Exchange keeps a ledger of past sales, guiding those who bargain with the weight of history behind their offers. A buyer might glimpse the blade priced in the high single digits of gold if luck and lore tilt the scales, or a patient negotiator might coax the number lower when the blade’s story outshines its edge. Either way, it arrives in a ship’s hold or a caravan’s saddlebag, bearing a tale to tell and a promise of power to wield. The iron and the blood, together, begin a journey that is never quite finished, always whispering of arrows in the dark and the next blade that will test its mettle.