Cleric's Destroyer Dagger

Cleric's Destroyer Dagger gleams with pale, frost-kissed steel; its edge remembers the grind of a hundred rites. A hilt wrapped in weathered white leather bears brass rivets shaped like tiny suns, and the grip feels cool yet steadfast in the palm. In its running script along the blade, a sigil of a lanterned cleric glows faintly, hinting at a lineage of healers who tempered spite with mercy. The lore whispers that it was forged in a chapel that stood against a blight-surge, then tuned to channel a purifier’s breath into the user’s own prayers. In the world, it is said to pierce the corrupt wards on haunted relics and to harmonize a party’s prayers into a healing chorus. Gamers of the road tell stories of its bite in combat: a single precise strike sings through the air and returns vigor to nearby allies. But it is not a weapon to wield without consequence; its power is bound to discipline, to mercy, to the bones of the cleric who once carried it. When paired with a healing core, it unlocks a pulse that restores health to allies and converts a portion of damage taken into a shield. In skirmishes beneath ruined arches, the dagger’s glow blooms with each successful strike, nudging the tide of battle toward safer margins. For travelers, the real test is not only its power but where it can be traded, which is how I first learned to read the city’s appetite for relics. I found the dagger in a rivulet of shade behind a vendor’s stall, the wood smoke curling up as a sign of a night market rumor. The price tag shimmered with a patient green glow, and the scribbled notes warned that the blade was not bound to a single account, but to deeds performed. Saddlebag Exchange—a sprawling tapestry of traders who barter by lantern light—held it for a moment longer than most, the seller offering a cautious estimate of around forty gold, depending on runes. I watched a kid chase a pop-up of moon-silver dust along the blade’s edge, imagining the scenes it had witnessed and the prayers it might still inspire. In the end, the exchange carried the dagger to a healer’s hands, and the healer carried the story further, stitching it into a larger web of alliances. That is how I learn its latest use: a whispered command binds its edge to the user’s conscience, making it more potent when mercy guides the strike. And when the dusk settles on the city, the dagger remains a quiet companion for those who seek to mend what violence broke. Back at the guild hall, its case sits on a map-dusted table, a quiet reminder of frontline clerics who walk the roads. Parchment notes beside it speak of rival factions craving its blessing, and of traders who barter peace with oaths for the blade. In play, its aura shields nearby allies while the edge grows warmer when mercy guides the strike. More than metal, really.