Deep beneath the Rhinelands, the Wordsmith Mime crafts weapons of extraordinary utility. Go, if you will, deep into those caverns, with your gold and your wits. Perhaps you will convince him to part with his favoured tools.

Many make the mistake of assuming that the Wordsmith’s blades are interchangeable; some are foolish enough even to say so, and Mime has little tolerance for those who fail to appreciate nuance.

You stand before the Wordsmith, hunched by low ceilings and the weight of your gathered wealth. Mime lays three swords upon the slab, each intricate in its craftsmanship.

The first is burnished bronze, leaf-bladed and razor sharp. Its edge cuts through your reserve, severs you from the fear which followed in your footprints since you last glimpsed the sun across the fields.

You are safe here, it whispers in a voice not unlike Mime’s own.

The second is delicate, intricate whorls and tendrils of silver-steel filigree. If you look close enough, perhaps you can glimpse the blade within the forest of silver vines, but not for more than a moment.

The unseen blade yearns to pierce misunderstandings, the tendrils flaying them wide until only true intent and purity of purpose remain.

Mime knows the price of truth-telling all too well, yet he is unwilling to elaborate.

But when you reach for the last blade - a shock of gleaming pearl cast like a tower reaching to the heavens - Mime snatches it away. You may not touch, he says, not until you have made your choice and paid your price.

The first two are cheap by comparison; merely a human fortune, rather than everything your family has ever owned. And why would anyone pay such a price?

The last blade cuts not awkwardness nor confusion, but dissent.