Deep within the underground lies a pawn shop, dusty cobwebs hanging from its dark ceiling. Every surface is covered with curios and trinkets, weapons of every kind lying on the tabletops, spellbooks and journals lining the shelves. Centuries of clutter fill the building from floor to ceiling, crowding every corner, some of Rathe's oldest mysteries hidden within its dark depths.
Within the darkness of the pawn shop lies an ancient blade, set out on a tablecloth, explorer's tools scattered nearby. Worn leather bindings have been stripped from the burnished bronze handle, exposing the carvings marking the hilt of the blade. The blade itself is chipped and worn, lacklustre, its filigree inscriptions are marred by centuries of disrepair, water marks tarnishing the once-bright silversteel.
Yet, despite its age, the blade has a certain majesty about it, the well-worn look of an adventurer, an explorer, the subject of legends. Here, the streaky, dappled mark of rek'vas venom. There, a smooth, stretched ripple from nearing magma. There, the pitted, warped sheen of a lightning strike. Here, in the dark, Talishar's name is unrecognisable, its tales forgotten, the journal that once accompanied it lost long ago.
