Shaman's Stormforged Mace gleams under the shop's lanterns, its head a heavy, rounded orb of storm-forged steel wrapped in jagged bands. The metal bears a bluish, electric sheen that seems to shimmer when the air grows thick with humidity. Hammered grooves trace lightning scars across the surface, catching the light and throwing it back in blue sparks. The grip is wrapped in weather-darkened leather, bound with copper wire that has darkly patinated with use, and a small tassel of sinew hangs from the base, swaying with every breath of the room. Carved sigils circle the head—a ring of storm spirits bound in bronze and ink, their expressions half-fierce, half-patient as if waiting for the next quarrel of weather to unfold. A faint hum runs through the mace when it is near, a reminder that metal and storm share a single breath. Its lore is not a single tale but a chorus: forged atop a ridge where thunder breaks over the map, gifted to a clan shaman who learned to listen to the wind and demand its mercy, tempered by the craftsman's flame until it would neither rust nor shudder in a gale. In hands, the mace feels heavy with history, but balanced enough for swift, crackling strikes. When swung, it seems to draw a line of cold air behind it, and with each impact a spark climbs the air like a tiny dragon waking from sleep. In combat, its true signature is not just raw force but the way the storm answers a friend’s call. A skilled wield-er can chain shocks to foes, each hit coaxing a little lightning that hops from target to target as though guided by an invisible chorus. On the battlefield, shamans turn to this weapon to anchor their storm-summoning rites, using its rhythm to synchronize groups, to time healing and burst damage with the cadence of thunder. It is a weapon for managers of tempo as much as for hammersmen of hurt. Market whispers are never far from such relics, even in a market as practical as the Saddlebag Exchange. Traders speak in measured tones about its value, noting the runic enchantments and the wear on the grip as weather and combat leave their marks. At Saddlebag Exchange, a seasoned clerk might place this mace on a scale of worth, with gold pieces moving like coins stirred in a river of wind; it can fetch a premium when the sigils glow with a brighter blue and a price that hints at legend rather than labor. A buyer will haggle, share stories of storms survived, and walk away with a token that feels like a promise: that the next storm will always have a blade ready to hear its pulse. And so the Shaman's Stormforged Mace travels on, not merely as gear but as a narrative you can hold in your hand, a reminder that power in this world is often a conversation between thunder and steel. Its story lingers in the market and memory always.