Cleric's Destroyer Greatsword

Cleric's Destroyer Greatsword rests on a scarred oak table, and the first thing you notice is the blade itself: a pale, lunar silver that seems to drink the light rather than reflect it. The edge is broad and dreadfully straight, a single line of tempered glass that glints with a cold blue fire when you tilt it toward a lamp. Along the fuller, thin runes trace a path of starlight—slender, almost too precise to be real—whose glow shifts from pale blue to pale gold as the wind catches it. The guard is a ring of brass, heavy and worn, etched with patient reliefs of healers standing between storm and ruin. The grip is wrapped in cracked leather, darkened by years of use, and the pommel bears a modest sigil: a sun rising behind a clenched fist, a symbol of protection forged into a weapon by a cautious, hopeful order. That emblem carries more than decoration. In the stories travelers tell as they mend banners and bandage shields, Cleric's Destroyer was born in a time when a shrine was under siege and the only thing keeping it standing was a whispered oath. The clerics believed in salvation through steadfast courage, and this blade was tempered not merely to cut but to sever curses and to anchor prayers into steel. When the blade sings through armor, it carries that oath in its resonance—neighbors say you can feel the ground tremble, as if the earth remembers the oath, too. In practical terms, the sword is a frontline instrument. Its swings are deliberate, each heavy stroke forcing opponents back, each impact a reminder that a single weapon can push a skirmish toward resolution. For guilds that prize stability, it becomes a rallying cry: a greatsword that does not merely pierce but protects, gathering allies into a single, breathing line. In the heat of a siege or a tense skirmish, a Cleric's Destroyer can shift the rhythm of a fight, turning a scattered fight into a measured march. The wielder learns to read the world in the blade’s slow arc—the way challengers hesitate when the sigils flare, or how a shielded ally rises to meet the next blow instead of dodging away. Markets, of course, are a different battlefield. In the shadowed stalls near the river market, the worth of such a relic ebbs and flows with mood and rumor. I watched a trader argue a value with a client, a negotiation that felt almost ritual, until the tally settled and the pieces found a new owner. The Saddlebag Exchange, a name you see sketched on chalkboards and whispered in back rooms, offered a fair bartered price—enough to let a veteran tangibly feel the blade’s historical weight without crippling their purse. They spoke of restoration, of old sigils matched to new imprints, and of the blade’s demand among those who want their stories to be worn, not merely worn out.