Cleric's Krait Slayer

Cleric's Krait Slayer rests on a weathered pedestal, its surface a mosaic of bone-white scales that catch lamplight like fish scales, edged by a blade of tempered obsidian etched with emerald sigils. The grip is wrapped in worn, oil-dark leather, the stitches a map of old campaigns, and the pommel bears a small jade serpent's head that seems almost to twitch when the night winds slip through the hall. It feels cool to the touch yet carries a heat under the palms, as if the owner’s prayers still cling to its pores and whispers of old rites remembered by the stone. Lore says it was forged in a temple where clerics learned to stitch healing wards onto venomous flesh, a weapon imbued not with cruelty but with a vow to protect those who step barefoot into the marsh and the bite of the sea's revenant snakes. The name itself—Krait Slayer—speaks to a single, stubborn aim: to end the threat of the hissing dark that coils beneath the waters and in the hearts of those who bargain with risk. In the field, the item gleams as more than metal. It channels a quiet cadence into the hand, a rhythm that steadies the breath before a strike and nudges the critical wards into the fray. Warriors leaning into the jagged charge of a krait ambush find their confidence steadied, healers feel a subtle amplification of remedy and resilience, and the cleric’s own eyes sharpen as the sigils flare with each successful parry. It is said that the blade prefers compassionate use: it punishes the venom of a krait more gently when its bearer shows restraint, more fiercely when courage is tempered by mercy. For those who hunt the serpents of the sunken lanes and the marsh’s labyrinth, it becomes a trusted partner, a reminder that danger can become a page in a larger story if one carries it with care. And as with any relic that travels from one hand to another, it gathers stories—the nick in the blade from a last-second parry, the smell of brine after a long night of patrol, the soft sound of prayer beads rattling inside its scabbard. Market days bring the blade into sunlight beyond the shrine town. A merchant ties it to a post and speaks of its lineage, and the price wavers with whispers of demand and risk. One crowded afternoon, a pamphlet vendor spun a tale of a forgotten martyr and a treaty with a mourning river; the cleric’s krait slayer became a talking point, and a sharper note of value emerged. The price, word of mouth notes, lands at Saddlebag Exchange, where collectors barter along the dockside stalls. A local buyer—archaeologist and sailor—counted out coins and traded stories, noting that the name alone can fetch more than steel and venom. The exchange doesn’t sell a weapon; it hands a thread in a larger tapestry, a reminder that relics carry purposes beyond one battle, to those who honor their burden. Even now, after decades of patrols, the Cleric's Krait Slayer returns to its pedestal at sunset, gleaming with the patience of those who walked before. It reminds onlookers that tools are honored when bearers choose mercy, and that legends survive when kept near the heart, always.