View table: weapons

Though heavy, this longsword swings effortlessly in your hand -- ready to take down a hundred enemies.

A nimble mace, heavy with the promise of broken bones.

Each cut of this blade shines with the wicked glint of adamantine -- a promise for a devastating blow.

When Allandra was a girl, she saw a hot spall of matter fire through the sky. She wished upon this falling star, but instead of getting an answer from the sky, she got one from the sea in the voice of Umberlee, goddess of the endless fathom.

This blade is one of a few rare swords wielded by the Eucalyptus League, a group of fabulously wealthy courtesans who owned a great deal of Luskan's bazaars.

The leather grip of this knife is decorated with jugs. As you turn it, you can see that the jug begins empty and fills.

It's only when you reach the final image that you can see a man's severed head over the jug, filling with beads of blood.

The extent of cultural idolatry amongst members of the Flaming Fist is anyone's guess, but fascination with fire is plain and unambiguously obsessive.

Few things solve a disagreement faster than displaying a greatclub. And this one reeks, too.

Though blood and age have rusted the mechanism, a good twist can still make the blades on this bloodletting device spin.

Though blood and age have rusted the mechanism, a good twist can still make the blades on this bloodletting device spin.

Quiet is the air around this sword, and quiet are the steps of the one who wields it.

This long, slender blade fits perfectly between the ribs of any unsuspecting victim.

Flecks of volcanic glass gleam darkly from the head of this warhammer - obsidian eyes regarding the world with the narrow, spite-inflamed convictions of its azer wielder.

A fine but well-used sword. It seemed to have once belonged to a holy order, but the indication of rank and patron deity at the hilt have recently been filed down.

Tiny scratches mar the metal -- a testament of someone sharpening this axe over and over.

The intricate engravings on this axe's blade and handle make plain the skill of its smith.

Faded but still legible, the mark of a Kara-Turan forgemaster adorns the pommel of this exquisite sword. Light as a robin's wing, quick as a gnomish wit, this weapon has unseamed many foes - and will continue to, in the correct hands.

Often mistaken for a relic of the wizard Bigby's creation, this staff was, ironically, made as a bite stick for Bigby's dog, Bigboy.

Formerly wielded by one who forsook all ties of friendship and kindness, this sword is rife with deranged energies. It seems to transmit feelings of contentment when carving through bones.

Fragments of dead souls are imprisoned in the steel. Angry, powerful, hopeful, or scared - all of them rose up against their illithid masters, and all of them fell to this blade. Now, they are trapped forever, forced to aid their opressors.

Conducting a series of increasingly sick rituals - involving the ashes of a gnome and silkworms fed fat on the corpse of a dwarven cleric - the goblin shaman Kirruk Redrats created this deadly bow.

This weapon was wielded by the lionlike eldritch knight Cypress of the Starfeller clan, who took on challenges of the heart and mind with palpable brilliance, and fought with a skill and heated intensity that was almost solar.

Stained brown and reeking of iron, this greataxe once belonged to a killer so deranged, his name was magically scrubbed from all histories.

The Lord of Murder wasn't always a lord. He was once just a petty killer. When Bhaal first drew blood in a Baldurian back-alley, it dropped to the ground and lingered. When he ascended, this dried blood-drop grew, warped - and became sharp.

The saw's teeth are blunt and rusted, it's beautiful metalwork barely visible beneath a layer of black, coagulated blood.

The saw's teeth are blunt and rusted, it's beautiful metalwork barely visible beneath a layer of black, coagulated blood.

The cut-off pincer of some Underdark crustacean seems to magically adhere to a bone shaft, creating a make-shift javelin.

This halfling bow requires a full draw for smaller folk, but serves as a quick off-hand for those of greater height.

The impression of an elven face screams silently from the finely curved bow - the image becomes even more disturbing when the bowstring snaps forward on release, emitting a blood-curdling wail.

Concussive energy thumps like a mighty heartbeat from this pike.

A skillful smith decorated the wooden handle with a fine golden filigree.

The tip of this club has snapped off, it's wood rotten to the core.

The pike's tip is battered and bent, fit for neither soldier nor scoundrel.

Carved in circles across the knob of the staff are different words for thunder. Gnomish, Sylvan, Elvish, Celestial, even the Primordial tongue - all of these and more fuse together to form the thunderword.

The texture of magic granted by a warlock's patron is largely dependent upon the patron themselves - for example, your standard eldritch patron's probably going to work some eyeball-mottled tentacles in there somewhere.

A deep oily smell wafts from this crude tree branch.

The intricate engravings on this axe's blade and handle make plain the skill of its smith.

A complex filigree wraps around the base of this blade - the runes on the side suggesting it is not merely decorative.

The leather handle of this mace smells badly of rotting blood.

Following tradition, this hammer's faces were forged with grooves that sealed in the blood of its first kill.

The weapon of a flind, imbued with the power of the demon lord Yeenoghu. Some say the flail itself is the catalyst for transforming gnolls into vicious flinds.

Energy crackles in weird and wonderful patterns across your hand as you wield this bound weapon, as if your very veins were marbled like a cloud of blue-white lightning.

A wooden sword coated in a thick layer of varnish. Well-loved, its handle is engraved with the name "Chessa".

Stained with blood and gore, the handle has almost rusted through.

This hammer has a colourful history - it doesn't honk when you squeeze it, alas.

A long, deep crack runs through the side of the wood, filled with crusted blood.

Though this rotting chair leg doesn't look like much, every splinter vibrates with barely-contained power.

In the steel, you can see small ice formations like bubbles in a bath, and even hear them pop with crickling crackles of frosted delight.

The intricate engravings on this axe's blade and handle make plain the skill of its smith.

This loyal axe always returns to its owner after being thrown. However, it has no eyes and therefore dreadful aim, inevitably returning to its thrower blade-end-first.

This light, flexible staff is of elven make, marked with mithral sigils that channel magic in the blink of an eye.

Reliable and trustworthy, you could not hope for more respectable company than this maul whilst traversing the forlorn places of the world.

Acid was long ago abandoned by assassins, who found poison much more reliable in spiking their target's drinks. The acid kept melting the chalices.

This staff pulses with energy, swiftly attuning itself to the beat of your heart.

When she was a girl, she toyed with nastiness and sadism. Children often grow out of this; they get hobbies. For Orin, that taste for cruelty fermented, and in a way she did find hobbies. Ones that screamed.

The soft hum of power emanates from the allien metal.

Rotten rags and mud are the only things keeping this mace together.

The trauma of becoming a drider is quickly set aside with a cold arachnid dispassion. This sword follows that disturbing trend - a replenishing poison gland is built within, deployed only against trapped opponents.

Wrought from a single piece of twisted iron. Bits of charred flesh cling to the strange symbol shaped at the end.

An old woodcutter's axe, infused with a shadow's bleak curse.

A rogue's favourite toy.

A rogue's favourite toy.

This dagger's handle is smooth and light, its jagged blade sharpened into a thin, cruel edge.

A light, slender blade, magically honed to stay razor-sharp.

This dagger's handle is smooth and light, its jagged blade sharpened into a thin, cruel edge.

This length of yew was polished in a lacquer made from the mingled, cooled, and refined breath of a gold and silver dragon.

A well-used dart, its stained feathers slightly bent.

A dart made of lightweight wood, its feathers carefully cut at a sharp angle.

Pegasus feathers lend this dart remarkable speed, as well as a pleasant jasmine fragrance.

Countless hands have smoothened the haft and sharpened the blade. This is an ancestral weapon - perhaps dating back to the ancient digs that sundered the duergar from their dwarf-kin.

This flail was created to commemorate victory over the devil Belhifet. It has since made its way so far from Easthaven that the locals have long forgotten that chapter of their town's past.

The power of this axe lies in a fluctuating arcane enchantment that flows between the beard and the edge of the axe, and the wielder themselves.

Touching the adornments, it's clear that Lorroakan's short temper has flowed into his staff. It flows into your brain in shades of burgundy and carmine, bright as the storm-lanterns of Lorroakan's homeland.

The golden slopes of the celestial heavens are filled with angels. Theistic scholars don't know what they do, but whatever it is, they do it holy.

This weapon is favoured by celestial devas, the vanguards of the divine ranks of paradise.

Contrary to popular belief, your standard djinni doesn't grant wishes, unless that wish is to have your nose lopped off.

Once wielded by a murderer, the weapon's handle retains an eerie, clammy warmth, as if Dolor's pre-slaughter sweat somehow crept into the leather - and lingers there still.

Bringer of that which it is.

Bringer of that which it is.

Somehow, this axe is perpetually feels warm to the touch.

Kereska, the draconic goddess of arcane knowledge, gifted this glaive to a dragonborn when facing off against a group of carbuncular spiders. How their arachnid legs curled and blackened before that night's dark business was done!

A web of veins runs the length of the blade - it has become a slender iron mortuary for all the innocents it has tasted.

Someone has carved twenty-seven small lines into the hard wood.

A deep oily smell wafts from this crude tree branch.

A blade gifted to Lora by her own mother, Lenore the Fleet. When challenged to duels, Lenore's opponents assumed she had received this nickname from some naval exploit. They found out how wrong they were when her blade blurred faster than the eye could follow.

Cradling his newborn son awkwardly, the Duke's face pulled into a rictus of misery. His love Francesca smiled at him, briefly, and died. He stared at her until the boy cried, and he told the boy it would be all right, though he himself did not believe it.

The first Dwarven Thrower was created unintentionally. The moment was transcribed in the annals of dwarfdom thusly: 'Ach, it doesn't work. Another design down the bloody drain. Now to... Does er... Does anyone else hear a short of humming whistle? Growing louder?'

Sometimes the blunt application of fear (and, admittedly, some winging elbows) is the difference between continued chaos and the re-establishment or order.

Silent flames surge the length of the blade as soon as it clears the scabbard.

Once there was a man who dreamed of unlocking every bit of his potential. It upset him when he couldn't; after all who can? When his daughter was born, she taught him about real dreams. She taught him with her eyes.

The intricate engravings on this axe's blade and handle make plain the skill of its smith.

A perfect system must be ruled by a keen eye - and any error foolish enough to rear its head afore the eye must be quickly, precisely, and totally eliminated. This crossbow can help with that.

A hand-like brand stamped into the leather handle obscures the notches that would normally signify a hobgoblin's rank.

While the handle is well made, the metal point is pitted with rust, and brittle as frozen underwear in the hands of a stone giant.

Though the crossbow's bolts look burning hot, they are pleasantly warm to the touch.

A browning piece of brain sticks stubbornly to one of the spikes.

The head of this flail is shiny and new, its wooden shaft still coarse and unmarked by blood.