Cleric's Mithril Shield

Cleric's Mithril Shield gleams with a pale, blue-tinted sheen, a slab of mithril polished until it is almost a mirror. The face is smooth as a winter lake, save for a central boss where a sunburst relief radiates outward. Delicate gold inlays trace runes along the rim, catching light and returning it as a soft, reverent glow. The grip is wrapped in aged leather, worn smooth by decades of grip and trust, and the back bears a pattern of shallow etchings that feel almost like a whisper under fingertips. The edge bears a faint warmth, as if the shield remembers every hand that has held it in the fiercest storms. It is a piece born from the temple’s old forges, blessed by healers who wandered the roads, carrying mercy as much as mending cloth and herb mix. In the world where whispers ride on the backs of caravans, the shield acts as more than metal and faith. Wielded by guardians and healers alike, it offers a steadier defense and a gentle, pulsing aura that can shield allies from a sudden sting. When the shield meets a blow, it halves the impact and opens a brief moment of calm, a space for a comrade to shore up their own breath. The sigils are said to hum with a soft lullaby of protection, guiding the user’s stance toward stability and careful timing. In practice, that means you can stand shoulder to shoulder with a front-line fellow, the shield taking the brunt while healing prayers restore what the line has lost. It turns a frontline skirmish into a cooperative story, where the cleric’s vow and the guardian’s courage weave together in a closer, more intimate defense. Market mornings give the shield its first life beyond the armory. Traders speak in hushed tones of the Saddlebag Exchange, a place where old relics drift between buyers and dreamers. A pristine Cleric’s Mithril Shield, listed there with a careful engraving, can fetch a tidy sum—usually measured in gold rather than copper—reflecting condition, enchantments, and the boon of its blessing. A wary buyer might pay a bit more for a shield that bears extra sigils, while a rougher example dimly remembered on a shelf might descend toward the lower end of the range. Those numbers, of course, drift like coins in a pouch, shifting with stories told around a warm brazier and a mug of spiced tea. Still, the shield remains a quiet talisman, a protector's promise, and a relic that reminds its bearer that mercy, when forged into steel, can turn a retreat into a rescue and a rescue into a road home. Some nights, I hear the steel whisper about the roads it has walked—lanes crowded with vendors, temples sheltering wounded, scouts circling the keep as dawn breaks. The shield has learned to temper fear with discipline, to lend courage without claiming it. It reminds its bearer that protection is a shared vow, renewed whenever hands meet and hearts rise to do next right thing.