Cleric's Krait Battleaxe

Cleric's Krait Battleaxe gleams under lamplight, a weapon that looks as if it were carved from a shadowed river and then fed with venom. The broad blade is a deep, almost midnight black, its edge catching light with a pale green fire as if a living serpent coils within the metal. Along the blade runs a slender fuller like a dark vein, and every inch is etched with tiny, overlapping scales that shimmer when you move it, as if the weapon itself remembers every strike it has ever sung. The haft is a lacquered walnut, scarred from travel and time, wrapped in braided leather straps that have seen better days and yet still hold fast—a grip worn smooth enough to feel like a second skin. A brass crossguard flares outward in the shape of a serpent’s open jaw, teeth catching the glow and giving the impression that the weapon could bite back at a moment’s notice. At the pommel, a pale opal pulses faintly, catching a flame’s flicker as if the stone itself keeps a tiny, patient beat of life inside. The look isn’t mere ornament. Legends say a cleric bound to a river temple fashioned it to turn poison into protection, to weave mercy with force. The krait motif—the scales, the sinuous line along the fuller, the venomous sheen—speaks not only of danger but of disciplined restraint. It’s said the weapon’s maker listened to the whispers of venomous spirits and learned to translate that rhetoric into wards and counter-curse, to turn a strike into a shield for those who fight beside you. In those stories, a single swing can open a path for healing sigils to glow in the wake, a reminder that mercy can ride on the same wind as wrath. In gameplay, Cleric's Krait Battleaxe is more than a showpiece. It invites a frontline style that pairs hard-hitting momentum with supportive intent. The weapon’s aura seems to amplify healing initiations nearby, letting a steadfast guardian or revenant keep comrades safer as they press forward. Its weight is deliberate, the kind of heft that makes every contact feel earned, every cleave a chance to reframe the fight—smashing through barricades of armor while leaving a faint afterglow of renewal in the air, as if the strike also mends a little of what war does to spirits. It’s the kind of tool that tells teammates, through gravity and glow, that protection and power can march in step. Prices drift through the world as surely as footfalls, and the market is a chorus of whispers and bargaining. I heard tell of it at the Saddlebag Exchange, where a weathered trader laid the Cleric’s Krait Battleaxe on a stall scarred by salt and sun. The tag wasn’t coy—three gold coins, a neat sum for something that feels almost mythic, with room to haggle if a buyer can sway a memory or a tale. The exchange of coin for clue, the trade of veteran lore for a weapon that seems to breathe, is the kind of moment where an artifact becomes a part of a larger journey. So the Cleric’s Krait Battleaxe endures not just as a tool of war, but as a relic that binds mercy to momentum, healing to heat, and the rider’s oath to the road ahead. It’s a story weapon as much as a battlefield tool, a reminder that in every clash there is a choice—and a fate worth defending.