A weapon used in the old days of Setsokan warlords, by the Son of Sets himself, these barbed spikes rend through flesh and bone as easily as paper.
"The Blizzard be strong outside, lads; settle yehself in and breathe the steam; we'll pass the time with a story."
A polished flake of porous stone, stained a deep, rusted brown, this once-hallowed knife contains traces of the eldest of magics.
The grudging gift of thankful mermen, a fine blade with a bit of baggage.
A magic knife - when it hits a target, it can age them by centuries, and may de-age the user.
Six gruesome blades forged from dwarven blood in the pits of ancient bol-Pakash. Six knives the dwarves wish never existed.
Sometimes, an item is not enchanted, but instead, a person's acts resonate so strongly across the planes of magic that their touch is forever remembered on the physical world. This is the tale of such an item.
Not all hammers are tools of creation. Some are made for destruction, and some rare few truly excel at it.
A dagger wielded in defense of the Modoc tribe, freezing its enemies in their tracks.
"Isn't it just a skillet?"
"That's what I thought... Now I'm not so sure."
The Hammer of the Dark can shroud your opponents in darkness, but if you use it too much, it is said that the darkness will fill your heart and lead to your own downfall.
"It's a bit rusted... but I think with time, you'll find that this ol' thing is a worthy travelling companion. And for you, miss... just 90 sovereigns."
A sword that defines and exemplifies the city of Angradhat
Occasionly magical weapons will be given the power to speak, and with that in mind I present thirty magical weapons with the powers of speech and their own distinct personalities. Feel free to add your own.
"This sword! It's helping me connect all the dots!"
"Yeah, even the dots that don't exist!"
This sword may not look like much, but it will probably save your life.
"Surely, you wouldn't deprive an old man of his walking stick?" Uh, yeah- you probably should.
A favored weapon for rogue/thief followers of the Sun God.
As the sun set, the holy monk of Jove muttered a word and the tip of his staff flared into flame like a torch, without being burned or scorched in any way by it's own holy fire. He carried on his way without fear of being sneaked up on or stepping off the path in the dark.
A group of humans living in a mountainous area have spent generations mining, drinking home made liquor, and generally not spreading the gene pool around enough. The end result is a sub-race of humans who no longer have necks, rather their heads protrude from the upper portion of the torso between the shoulders. They have beards, and lacking the ability to turn their heads, can only see what they are directly facing. They are simple and to the point, and direct to the point of bluntness.