Cleric's Darksteel Hammer

Cleric's Darksteel Hammer gleams with a dull, patient fire, its head a block of noir metal scored with pale sigils that shimmer like frost on a window. The grip is wrapped in worn leather, stitched with thread that has darkened to the color of old ink, and the balance feels almost ceremonial in the hand, as if it expects you to listen before you strike. When you raise it, the hammer's weight settles into your forearms, and a soft warmth travels along the wrist, as though the steel remembered every prayer offered upon it. The head bears a crown of etching—a circle of runes that glow a quiet blue when dawn breaks—while a faint crackle of static seems to ride the air, a whisper of the shield that once flowed through its bearer. Lore says it was forged in the quiet flame of the Cathedral's forge, tempered not only by heat but by a vow: to heal where wounds fester and to bind broken wards that strangers forget to mend. In battle, the Cleric's Darksteel Hammer feels both champion's verdict and healer's breath. Its swings clear the battlefield as much as they carve a path for the party’s more fragile members. A single strike can break a curse or shatter a shield, but the hammer also pulses with restorative energy, sending out a ripple of radiance that knits torn armor and steadies trembling hands. Guardians who wield it learn to weave safety and momentum together—to stand between the injured and the advancing line, to turn a lull in combat into a minute of mercy. It is not just a weapon; it is a statement of intent: that strength need not be brute only, and that mercy can be a force as steady as the hammer's rhythm. Prices travel with whispers and dust, and the market that drives such legends is more than stone stalls and coin. If you listen for it, you can hear the clink of coins and the soft rustle of parchment at the Saddlebag Exchange, where travelers lay out gear and stories side by side. A clerk marks the Cleric's Darksteel Hammer at three gold pieces, sometimes a shade less if a buyer carries a blessing or yields a rune from a previous pact. Traders bargain with respect for its soul, offering trades that feel almost ceremonial, as if you’re not simply selling a tool but handing someone a new vow to keep. Folks pass on price tags and pocketed sigils, as if the hammer’s legacy depends on keeping the balance between value and virtue. So the hammer travels on, through quiet roads and crowded markets, a companion to the worn glove of a healer and a reminder that even iron can carry a prayer. In the hands of the right steward, it becomes more than steel: a beacon for those who fight to mend what war has rent and a lasting symbol that mercy, properly wielded, can be the strongest strike of all. Its glow endures.