Recipe: Tizlak's Flanged Mace rests on the page like a slab of armor, its parchment corners curled, the ink dried into a coppery bronze sheen. The illustration shows a heavy head with three stout flanges fanning outward, a knurled grip wrapped in weathered leather, and a tiny sigil of a gear tucked into the corner. The paper smells faintly of coal smoke and oil, and a wax seal pressed with a hammer symbol holds the margins closed as if the blueprint itself once survived a vault break. The texture is stiff and bone-white, yet when you tilt it to the lamp you can almost feel the weight of the strike it prescribes, as if the paper were a plan hovering over the anvil. Locals tell of Tizlak, a smith who vanished into the surrounding hills years ago after a spree of cantankerous experiments. The margins of his work carry hints: a note about tempering the steel with a whisper of heat, a reference to rivets that must be set with a steady hand, a line about a moment of alignment when the mace head sits perfectly true. The recipe reads like a message left by a man who trusted his craft more than his words; it is less a poem than a precise instruction—each angle measured, each cut accounted for, each flange milled to bite into mail and plate. In practice, the blueprint unlocks a weapon that feels as much a tool as a symbol. When a smith decodes it, the Tizlak’s Flanged Mace becomes tools for more than display. The head’s flanges bite through chain and cuirass with a confidence that only a well-forged contact can grant; the added leverage hums with a rhythmic certainty, turning heavy blows into armor-splitting commissions on the battlefield. It suits veterans who balance a guardian’s shield with a craftsman’s steady hand, or an engineer who wants their hammer to sing at close quarters. The mace is not flashy; it is honest work—an instrument of discipline, a reminder that sometimes the simplest forms teach the hardest lessons. Market talk around the blueprint threads through taverns and caravans, and Saddlebag Exchange becomes the quiet chorus of the day. Peddlers debate how the plan should be valued—some praise its reliability and the purity of its tempering, others warn that supply is scarce and that a true Tizlak’s build requires the right steel and the right temper. Prices drift with rumor and demand, sometimes shimmering at a few gold, sometimes slipping into the mid-range as quarries yield more ingots. A buyer who watches the stalls can sense the undercurrent of history—the trade routes, the scraps of insight, the sense that this recipe ties a smith to a legend and a legend to a war-torn world. In the end, the recipe is less a mere instruction than a doorway. You hold it, you study the lines, you decide what kind of strike you want to leave behind in the dust. History lingers in forges touched by this blueprint.