It's a curved longsword that looks like it's seen a hundred lifetimes of use - chipped and cracked, filthy, wrapped in rags, seemingly on the verge of collapse. It has the sharpest edge you have ever seen. It might only be good for a few more cuts, but boy, what cuts they would be.
75GP
The tired old man glances from his messily constructed junk desk made of melted blades and broken armor, topped with a storied, scarred flat board. The surface is a piece of his great grandmother's armoire that survived the raid and pillaging attack said blades and broken armor came from. He wears an uneven, jagged scar across his left eye which accentuates his wrinkles and the weakly present dimples that accompany his weary smile. His patchy, stalwart but balding white crown is a weak echo of his youth, and his gently flowing beard entombs his features from his ears down to his chin. He has welcomed in a quintet of inexperienced young adventurers, the likes of which have clearly just arrived from out of town owed to the fresh faces, confident boasts of impossible deeds, and to highlight the scene, their armor still has matching pieces. The picture perfect gaggle of customers, fools who are easily parted with their coin by trinkets and tinctures.
A young human, clad in an amber and brass accentuated, reasonably well made breastplate approaches the table. The billowing cape of matching amber and gold vestiment flows majestically, as if he'd accomplished some great heroic deed. The rude youngster rests his discordantly muddy, ichor-stained gauntlets on the table and sullys its finish tactlessly. His face now grim and serious, as if in the company of a polite stranger he suddenly was neither youthful nor hopeful. The frail looking elf girl buried in a fine cloak and a healer's lightly armored robe scoots up next to him. She shushes her young party members, the diverse entourage consisting of a half orc clad in scars and loosely patched hides, a kobold adorned in feather-ornamented battlements who awkwardly balances a spear that nearly touches the ceiling, and another human seemingly from the same town as their leader owed to his matching regalia and brass-lined crossbow. The five youthful party members look ashen, colour drained from their faces, as if the old man's visage was contagious and could age them at a glance for ten years each.
A darkness snuffs out all but the faintest flicker of a single candle that lingers on the table made of the memories of old wounds. The once-strapping young man now wears mile-deep shadows which obscure his once soft features, twisting him into a dire carving of a well-learned man. With careful motions, he draws from his pack a blade wrapped in bloody linens, bearing the seal of the regional lordship, and gently rests it on the table. The weapon sinks into where the old man's son had gouged a permanent wound in the aged wood with his dagger, accused him of cowardice, and set off into the night to exact revenge, disappearing forever. It was but a moment ago the old man thought, but 15 years passes in a blink at his age. An ever-deepening dread washes over the room, complete with the chill of death, the heat of rage, the emptiness of loss. A deep psychic sorrow soaks the weathered table in the steadily expanding pool of blood that the still-wrapped blade weeps. Trembling, the man gently tugs at the faintly visible, hellfire red stained chord securing the cloth around whatever terribly evil artifact was within.
His unsteady hands work at the loosely tied knot, compelled by some unseen force despite his mental protestations. The darkness around him is suffocating, his vision narrows and blurs, the actions of his trembling wrists and dancing fingers feel distant, as-if they were shadows flickering in the dying light of hope. He cannot breathe, a choking force strangles his voice into a croaking wheeze, and his paralyzed breast echos hollow with a mad heart crashing against his ribs with panic. The cloth rolls down as if drawn like a curtain, the naked blade upon being revealed oozes menace as the roiling blood trickles down and pools beneath his feet. The hideous thing glimmers with slick, black blood in the dim candlelight. Gently resting against the weathered hilt is a small hand-written note that is badly faded, its parchment cracking at the edges. The shakily scribed familiar writing elucidates the origin of the familiar blade and the fate of its wielder. He is beset by tears, his hands clutch the note as he falls to his knees and kisses the decrepit piece gently. A custom of his region.
Wordlessly, the young human gives him a gentle clap on the shoulder, and a whispered mercy clawed from the clutches of death.
"He did not suffer."
The party departs into the inky blackness of an unnatural dusk.
The old man is alone again with his grief.
He is grateful.
