The Quench

A great flooded stone basin that has swallowed every fire ever carried down here. It draws its lid over itself so small hits die on the stone, then drinks its own wounds closed, so damage arriving a little at a time never really arrives at all. Its cold settles into your sword-arm between blows, and the next strikes land soft. Even conjured mana gutters in its damp — every spark a card kindles is snuffed against your skin. Break it under 40% and the lid comes off for good: it stops mending and just pours. Its cold has one more habit: it settles into the wrist between blows, so every edge you patiently whet on it comes up blunt — only a fifth of the Hone you put in is still there when you swing.

The drowned cistern that swallowed every fire ever carried down here. It shuts its lid on your small hits and drinks its own wounds closed, so damage delivered a trickle at a time never actually arrives. Break it under 40% and the lid comes off: it stops mending and simply pours.