Cleric's Darksteel Dagger gleams under torchlight, a slender blade of near-black steel with a tempered, almost glassy sheen that seems to drink the lamp's glow rather than reflect it. The fuller runs like a pale river along the blade, and along its length a lattice of sigils—thorned vines and tiny crosses—glints blue whenever flame catches just right. The grip is wrapped in weathered crimson leather, the tangs gripped with a quiet insistence, while the guard is carved into a small crescent clasp that hints at mercy rather than conquest. Legend claims it was forged in the quiet forges of a hidden monastic order, tempered in holy oil and cooled in a spring whose waters were said to soothe fever and fear alike. If you cradle it, you can almost hear a litany whispered in a room full of saints and patients, a reminder that mercy can arrive with the sharpest of tools. In the world, the dagger moves with a strange, patient confidence. It is not the loud instrument of a berserker but a selection for those who serve on tight margins—the quick, surgical cut that ends a skirmish before it becomes a massacre, the precise nudge that lets a ward healer finish the job with care. Its lore invites players to imagine clerics and scouts sharing a blade in a trusted oath, a symbol of protection that risks almost as much as it saves. In practical terms, its balance favors speed and control over brute power, letting a practiced hand chain swift stabs with careful healing or cleansing of a tainted battlefield. The weapon asks its owner to walk a line: strike with mercy, finish with restraint, always mindful of who stands on the far side of the blade and why. Markets breathe life into that tension. Through the heat of a sunlit afternoon, I wandered toward Saddlebag Exchange, where traders hawk curios as much as coin. There, the Cleric's Darksteel Dagger rested on a velvet cloth in a case that had clearly seen rain and rumor, a relic that drew the eye of wanderers and far-off buyers alike. A seasoned trader spun its tale, weaving references to monasteries, plague-breakers, and a vow to protect even when the world teeters on the edge of ruin. The price hovered between cautious optimism and the glow of a well-timed bargain, a sweet spot that can only be found when supply and story align. People whispered that a dagger such as this could fund a caravan guard, buy a healer’s last tincture, or secure passage through a contested pass for a night or two. In the end, Cleric's Darksteel Dagger is more than steel. It is a compact verse in the grand poem of the world—a tool that demands discipline, a relic that narrates mercy, and a reminder that power, when tempered with care, can sing as much as it cuts. And so, in quiet markets and ransacked halls alike, the dagger persists as a whispered promise: mercy bound to steel, a story carried in the pocket and the heart. Its legend lingers in every shadow.