Sarthel, Concealing Truth of Severance rests in a glass display like a midnight whisper made tangible—a greatsword whose blade drinks the light and returns it in a ripple of obsidian sheen. The steel seems to swallow the air, cool and flawless, with veins of coppery glow racing just beneath the surface. The edge gleams with a patient, almost reluctant sharpened hunger, and the guard curves inward as if to cradle a secret only a true bearer could unlock. The handle is wrapped in soft leather that smells faintly of rain on old stone, and along the fuller runes coil and fade, appearing to vanish whenever you blink, as if truth itself might slip away if you stare too directly. When you lift it, the weight settles with a measured gravity, as though the weapon is reminding you that power is a loan you must repay with responsibility. Sarthel, Concealing Truth of Severance carries more than a silhouette and a name. It is said to have been forged by Sarthel, a figure half-legend, half-diplomat of knives and secrets who believed every severed bond carried a second deed—the hidden ledger of consequence. The title Concealing Truth of Severance is not a boast but a warning: the blade is meant to cut through deceit even as it hides what would be dangerous if laid bare. In the right hands, its runes awaken like a chorus—subtle hints that reveal through mist, a glimmer that exposes a trap beneath a smile, or a whispered truth that unsettles a lie so deeply embedded in politics or power that no public speech can mask it. In practical terms, the weapon shifts the rhythm of battle. It’s said to resonate with the wearer’s intent, bending the moment to reveal misdirection in the opposing ranks or to pierce through illusory veils that thieves rely on to vanish from sight. Those who wield Sarthel often speak of a careful balance: every strike can unveil a truth about the target’s vulnerability, yet the blade demands restraint, for truth spoken too freely can turn a duel into a fatal confession. It is a weapon for a tactician who believes that true victory lies not in raw force alone but in stripping away the veils that grant advantage to the untrustworthy. The world around Sarthel shifts with its presence. In courts and caravans, the blade has become a symbol—a reminder that even in a market of traded loyalties, some truths are worth paying for. I learned this not from a book but from the way strangers circle a display case in the bustling Saddlebag Exchange, where whispers travel faster than coin. There, a dealer’s eyes track the blade as if listening for a heartbeat behind the steel, and the price tag, though scribbled in practiced shorthand, carries a rumor-filled weight: a sum that might rise with season, or fall if a rumor of betrayal sweeps through the stall. It’s not just gear; it’s a narrative thread that binds merchants, scholars, and soldiers, each bargaining not over mere metal but over the burden and beauty of unveiling what lies beneath. So Sarthel waits—not simply to be wielded, but to be understood. In the right hands, it does more than sever ties; it reframes the entire battlefield as a room where truth, finally spoken, makes the next move inevitable.