Crusader Pearl Sabre rests on a folded velvet cloth, the blade a pale ribbon of moonlight captured in steel. Its edge catches the light with a whisper of glass, cool to the touch and impossibly smooth, as if the metal remembers every cut it has ever made. The crossguard curves like a narrow crescent, inset with tiny pearls that seem to bloom when the sun touches them, while the grip is wrapped in pale leather that has grown soft from years of hands tightening in resolve. At the pommel, a single pearl gleams, not perfectly round but heavy with a quiet memory, as if it holds a secret oath within its milky depths. Some say the blade carries the touch of a saint’s mercy; others swear it only reflects the courage of those who wield it. In the right light, the runes etched along the fuller glow faintly, like embers beneath snow. The lore is as much a story as the steel. It is told in taverns and caravan camps that the Crusader Pearl Sabre was forged for a vow rather than a victory, tempered beneath moonsilver fires by a smith who swore to keep faith with a long-vanished order. The pearl in the hilt is said to have been taken from a pearl oyster that survived a storm-wracked sea and later bound to the blade with a craft that married protection and pathfinding. Those who prize it speak of a blade that chooses moments of crisis to shine, turning a desperate swing into a safeguard for the wounded and a rallying cry for the wary. The weapon’s aura feels communal, as if every owner adds a thread to a tapestry that stretches beyond one lifetime, so that its legend grows stronger whenever it is drawn in defense of others. In the world where armies move in search of safety and markets pulse with opportunity, the Sabre is more than a weapon—it is a symbol that can turn the tide of a skirmish and the mood of a march. Players who tend to support, to shield, or to lead a group through peril often seek it not for raw damage but for the moral weight it lends to a team’s frontline. A strike with the sabre seems to carry responsibility with it—the sense that a just blow should mend rather than maim, that a courageous cut can clear a path for those who lag behind. It is the kind of blade that makes a veteran say, “Let me take the first step so you can take the next.” Even the market has its own small drama. In the Windward District’s busy Saddlebag Exchange, a stall with a chipped sign and a wary cat for a mascot displays the Crusader Pearl Sabre under careful glass. The price tag reads in neat script—roughly 22 gold, with room for negotiation if you offer a trade that holds meaning: a rare pearl from a long-quiet reef, a relic of a fallen charter, a map that points toward safer routes. The seller speaks softly, half in legend and half in arithmetic, inviting a buyer who understands that this is not merely metal and pearl but a pledge renewed with every swing. When it passes hands, the Sabre carries a new chapter, a promise that moves through the world like a current, guiding its bearers toward mercy and courage as surely as any compass points north.