Carrion Flame Greatsword of Air rests on a glass display, its blade a long shard of stormsteel that looks tempered by a black dawn. The edge catches light like a blade carved from a thunderhead, rimmed with a halo of ash-gray sheen that seems to ripple with every breath of wind. Along the flat of the blade, runes coil in ash-blue, curling and uncurling as if a miniature cyclone lives beneath the steel. The grip is wrapped in weather-dark leather, scarred by decades of travel, while the guard—a skeletal sweep of bone—flickers with a pale, internal flame that never quite becomes a blaze. It feels cold to the touch and warm to the eye, as if it remembers rain and fire in equal measure, and the air around it hums with a whisper of stories best spoken in low voices. Lore clings to it like a shadow. They say the Carrion Flame was forged at the edge of a storm by a necromancer who learned to tie wind to will. It was tempered with carrion ash and fed by the breath of a hundred dead camps, then kissed with a windspell so old it predates most maps of the world. In the hands of a practiced warden or a patient revenant, the sword seems to pull the air into motion, sending a gust through ranks of enemies and turning a crowded plaza into a windy corridor where the blade slices clean and true. Its magic is not merely show; it carries the memory of marches and campfires, the echo of orders barked in the night, and the feel of a blade that has always known how to survive by cutting a path through chaos. In gameplay, it feels like a conductor’s baton—weighty, precise, and capable of reshaping a skirmish. The Carrion Flame Greatsword of Air doesn’t merely swing; it invites the wind to shoulder the strike. A broad, sweeping arc punishes groups with a blistering arc of flame and debris, while a charged follow-through belts a line of air-flung heat that staggers and burns, thinning the frontline as if the storm itself had decided to help the wielder. Its aura is as much about tempo as force: a saber’s edge that prompts cautious defenders to step back and forward-lunging foes to overcommit. For solo exploration, it clears the path with elegant brutality; in organized play, it becomes a tempo-setter—cut, gust, push, and reset. Markets give the story its currency, too. A blade this storied doesn’t live in isolation; it travels, traded by caravans and couriers who read the winds for value as much as for danger. I wheel through a crowded market where merchants haggle with weather-worn hands, listening to whispers of demand that drift from stall to stall. At Saddlebag Exchange, the chatter about prices feels almost like a weather report—today’s notes tell of a fair, if steep, asking price, a few coins swinging with supply and demand, a rare wind turning in favor of the seller. A recent listing sits on the screen, a line of digits that feels like a forecast: gold, silver shadows, and a count of coins that cannot be ignored by anyone who seeks a weapon that can alter a battlefield and a story. So the Carrion Flame Greatsword of Air waits, not merely as a tool of war but as a moving chapter—blade, wind, ash, and memory—all waiting for the next hand that will read its page.