Cleric's Darksteel Mace

Cleric's Darksteel Mace rests on a worn velvet cloth, its head a broad, polished disk of obsidian-touched steel. Edges are tempered to a hair-thin bevel, catching the light with a cold, surgical gleam. Inlaid along the haft are faint sigils—an etched sun, three small hands, and a corner of runes that seem to hum when you lean in close. The grip is wrapped in leather dark with wear, stitching pale as ash, and a small pewter medallion hangs near the pommel, a relic of a forgotten order. It feels substantial, heavier than it looks, and when you tap it, a hollow ringing sound travels up your forearm, as if the mace itself remembers every swing across a long, war-torn history. The piece carries a quiet ritual aura: not merely a weapon, but a reliquary on a battlefield. Lore says it was forged in the old crucible of the Clerics who tended the wounded as much as they defended the weak. Darksteel tempered with a mercy-black alloy was said to drink in the pain of those it struck, then return healing as a pale glow that lingered on the skin of allies. Over generations, this mace passed through hands of battlefield medics, temple wardens, and caravan guards, always at the hinge between judgment and solace. In tavern gossip and temple scrolls, it’s spoken of as a bridge—between iron and prayer, between violence and care. In practical terms, the Cleric's Darksteel Mace is prized for its balance on the front lines. It delivers crisp, thunderous blows that feel almost ceremonial, while the lore of its tempering whispers through cooldowns and rolls of a party’s healing cadence. When a cleric grips it, their healing aura seems to synchronize with the swing, so a wounded comrade feels the recovery rise just as the impact lands. Some wielders report that, during tense skirmishes, the mace seems to ward off the worst of a crowd—the wavering, the panic—almost as if the weapon carries an unspoken oath to shield those who fight beside it. It’s a symbol as much as a tool, a beacon to faction guards, temple scouts, and mercantile guardians who believe that mercy can stand firm in the teeth of war. Market whispers are as much a part of its legend as its steel. On a bright morning at the river stalls, I watched a clerk polish the mace with a rag that left a trace of cloth scent in the air. A buyer asked about its price, and the conversation drifted toward Saddlebag Exchange, where listings for such relics rise and fall with the hour. The price fluctuates with demand, but the seller’s eyes brightened as a fresh bid came in—an indication that the Cleric's Darksteel Mace remains not only a weapon, but a story people want to carry, and to pass along to the next dawn. By sundown, the mace’s edge reflected the last orange light, and the story kept circling the market: a blade that wounds and heals, a relic that endures, a reminder that in a world of factions and fortresses, mercy can be forged in iron.