Cleric's Mithril Shield rests on a rough-hewn table, its face a pale, gleaming field of mithril that catches the light with the quiet inevitability of dawn on water. The metal is cool to the touch, smooth as a glass lake, yet you can feel the centuries of craft in the tiny hammer marks that speckle its rim like freckles. A narrow band of etched sigils runs around the edge—simple sunbursts, a few prayer runes, and a line of script that once whispered protection into the metal itself. At the center, a shallow boss bears a radiant hand, palm open as if to cradle a wounded world; the emblem seems to breathe a soft, inward glow, a promise that shelter is never far away when this shield is raised. The back is lined with worn leather, stitched to aged bronze brackets, the straps softened by travel and the weight of many battles carried with honor. It is heavier than it looks, but the balance is so carefully judged that the wielder feels steadier the moment it comes to shoulder height, as if calm itself leans into the arm. Lore threads itself into its polished surface the way light threads through a cathedral's stained glass. The shield was wrought in a temple’s smithy, during a long, cold season when faith and iron were tempered side by side. It was blessed not merely to endure but to embolden—the idea that protection is a vow, not a tactic. It has passed through hands of shieldbearers who walked front lines where arrows stitched the air and the wounded cried out for quiet, for a single moment of shelter. Those who pressed this mithril into service spoke of the shield as a quiet companion—one that stood between a healer’s prayer and the frantic breath of those who depended on it. In battle, it’s a tangible lull in the storm, a tool to parry, to block, and to anchor a formation while rallying cries rise from the ranks behind it. In the world it roams, the shield is more than a piece of equipment; it tells a story when you heft it, a tale of oaths kept and doors held against a darkling tide. Its use in play mirrors that narrative: it absorbs punishment, gives the frontline a bulwark, and allows companions to move, heal, or strike while the guardians hold the line. The shield’s aura—though not a weapon of brute dominance—lets a protector lean into their role with a disciplined calm, enabling a cleric or guardian to shield allies, cast a barrier, and watch the convoy of hope push forward. The market hums with its presence as well. If you wander into Saddlebag Exchange and peek at recent listings, pristine Cleric's Mithril Shields often carry a premium, their gleam a sign of care and a memory of the hands that first breathed life into the sigils. Yet even worn pieces carry stories—a patina of travel, a scuff where a melee’s edge found its mark, a reminder that protection travels, person to person, as surely as a blessing travels from saint to soldier. When you cradle it, you feel not just metal and strap, but the quiet vow that shelter will endure, long after the clash of arms has faded into the distance and the dawn breaks over a world that keeps on fighting, one shield at a time.