Cleric's Mithril Axe

Cleric's Mithril Axe rests on a sun-bleached strap, its blade a gleaming sheet of mithril hammered to a whisper-thin edge. The metal catches the light with a cold, merciless gleam, as if a sliver of winter were trapped inside. The haft is wrapped in worn leather, stained from years of travel, with brass rivets that glint like tiny suns. Along the spine run runes—old prayers inked by a craftsman who swore fealty to a shrine. The crossguard curves into two open hands, cradling the blade as if ready to catch a life in mid-swing. In its gloss there is a rumor of healers tempering it in blessed water, of battles fought to protect relics, of banners that still flutter in the memory of iron. Its edge hums softly when drawn today, a reminder of both faith and forge. I have stood at market stalls where this weapon carries more story than ledger. In the hands of a cleric-ward, it becomes symbol and tool: it cleaves with force yet leaves room for healing prayers to weave through the clamor. In skirmishes it arcs outward in a broad sweep, thinning mobs and opening lines for stronger blows. Wielded by those who blend faith and iron, its presence steadies ranks and lends courage to front-rank fighters, reassuring allies who fear a sudden rush of doom. It’s not merely a weapon; it’s devotion and craft sharing one edge. Carvers who work with mithril speak of the quiet resonance the axe carries when swung near stone altars, a rhythm that seems to synchronize heartbeat with the march of a party. In the wild, it feels like a guardian keeping pace with you, not a tool to coax into service, but a partner you can trust when the shadow lengthens. That trust is earned, thread by thread, with each careful swing and each whispered prayer. And the story keeps growing, too. As a piece of gear, its value grows with stories carried by merchants and travelers alike. At Saddlebag Exchange, the chatter around the Cleric's Mithril Axe is thicker than the dust on the shelves. One trader swears it’s blessed enough to turn the tide of a siege, another notes that the runes imply a pact with long-dead guardians. The price tag shifts with rumor and demand, glancing between a handful of gold and a few rare hides, with higher bids when a renowned smith toils to reforge it for a new owner. Old traders swap stories as often as steel, trading legends of armor and ambush for a higher bid. A buyer haggles over runes on the haft or blade gleam, hoping to secure a piece that endures many marches. Those who carry it walk longer roads, where temple bells fade and courage remains. In markets and monasteries alike, its name travels with the blade, shaping rumors and futures as surely as it shapes lines in a battlefield. Its steel remembers every footstep, every whispered prayer, softly.