Cleric's Mithril Sword

The Cleric's Mithril Sword gleams with a pale, almost holy glow, its blade a whisper-thin arc of moonlit metal that catches light and holds it like a held breath. The mithril has that quiet, frost-kissed sheen, too cool to scorch the flesh yet bright as a shrine’s lantern when the night is at its darkest. Along the blade, delicate veins run like the map of a healing rite, and faint sigils—thin as prayer beads—glow a soft blue when warding wards flare to life. The crossguard resembles a pair of narrow wings, folded just so, forged from the same silver-blue alloy and carved with micro-sigil motifs that tell stories of mercy and resolve. The grip is wrapped in weathered leather, threaded with pale thread that has taken on a touch of gray from years of handling in cold workshops and hot fieldwork alike. At the pommel sits a small opal, a quiet, captive star that catches moonlight and then, in quiet moments, seems to murmur a name only those who have sworn to protect can hear. In the memory of its maker, the blade was tempered not only in fire but in faith. It was forged within temple walls, where voices rose in chorus and the hammering rang with a cadence of healing. Clerics who tended the wounded would lay their hands on the forge hood, and the prayers would braid with the metal as it cooled, leaving a resonance that softens the edge as surely as a blessing softens a sting. The lore threads the sword with kinship to healers and guardians, who learned to read the blade not by its violence but by the way its light steadies nerves and steadies hands in the heat of battle. Some say the blade remembers every patient it saved, every shelter it helped raise from ruin, every vow it kept when a village’s light seemed to gutter. Its significance in the world goes beyond its striking beauty. In skirmishes that spill into the open it acts like a beacon, guiding the wary and steadying the faltering. Swing it and the glow brightens; a healer nearby feels a pull to move closer, to weave a circle of protection, to channel a little more vigor into the struggling ranks. For those who walk the edges of frontline peril, the sword is a reminder that strength can be a mercy as much as a weapon—an emblem that a blade can heal as surely as it harms if wielded with care. It is a reminder, too, that power in the right hands becomes a story shared in quiet rooms and crowded markets alike. Market talk, too, threads into its threadbare legend. In the bustling stalls of Saddlebag Exchange, stories of the Cleric’s Mithril Sword ripple through the air as traders haggle over glint and guarantee. A price tag, flickering between currency and favor, might sit somewhere in the realm of several gold—enough to test a pilgrim’s purse and a smith’s pride—yet the true value, the whispers insist, lies in the vow to guard a village, to ease a patient, to stand as a living line between despair and dawn. So the sword travels on, from workshop bench to battlefield and back again, carrying a ledger of mercy written in metal and light.