Cleric's Darksteel Spear

Cleric's Darksteel Spear rests in my palm like a quiet rumor made solid—the shaft a deep, oil-slick black that drinks the candlelight, smooth and cool to the touch. Its head is a slender crescent of tempered darksteel, the edge so finely honed that the metal seems to hum ever so slightly when you tilt it toward a sunbeam. Along the haft runes, etched in minute strokes, spiraling toward a central sigil—a lamp lidded with a shy, patient glow—then fade into the grip where leather wraps in tight, practical spirals. The grip itself feels decades old, smooth from countless hands, the leather darkened by rain and use, a faint scent of cedar and oil lingering in the weave. At the butt, a small chain of sigils dangles, catching on threads in the air as if it were whispering a warning to keep the wearer humble in victory. Lore threads weave through its form as if the spear were a thread of cloth pulled tight across a hidden wound. Lore says it was forged not for conquest but for guardianship: a ritual weapon wielded by a cleric order that tended ward and well alike, the sort of order that chose to stand before sanctuaries when the world trembled. The steel’s meteorite-hardness hints at a vow to endure, and the sigil at the head—an eye half-closed in vigil—speaks of sleepless nights spent counting prayers into the dark. Some say the spear carries a warding essence, a whisper of light bound into the metal by hands that prayed as they hammered, so that any strike against the bearer met with a glimmering reprieve. Others hear the faint chime of bells when it’s moved just so, as if the relic were listening to the rhythm of a tune no one else can hear. In the field, the Cleric's Darksteel Spear is less a weapon of raw harm than a conduit—an instrument through which healing and shield carry farther. Wielded by a healer’s hand, it channels a radiance that seeps into allies, smoothing the rough edges of a fight and turning narrow escapes into patient, deliberate saves. Its aura seems to bloom when the party gathers close, a pocket of light that steadies nerves and steadies aim, turning panic into coordinated action. The spear’s reach is practical as well: it earns its keep in tight corridors and open lanes alike, the spearhead slicing through wind and confusion as a marching beacon, while the runes along the haft pulse with the cadence of a battle hymn. On market days, the exchange boards at Saddlebag Exchange shiver with rumors of the Cleric's Darksteel Spear—a rare drop and a rare ask. Caravans whisper that a price in gold can be coaxed from its keeper, but bargaining is an art here: a story traded as carefully as coin, the vendor’s eyes flitting between buyer and case, measuring trust as much as value. I watched a veteran trader wheel a tale about a temple’s last dawn, and in exchange for a fair hand, the spears’ worth rose and fell with the day’s mood. A merchant finally set a price that balanced hope and risk, and the crowd’s murmurs drifted into the hawker’s sunlit corner, the spear’s quiet glow lingering like a vow long after the coin changed hands. Whether you’re drawn by its lore, its resilience, or the way it threads healing through danger, the Cleric's Darksteel Spear remains a story you can lift, study, and bear into the next room of battle as if it already knows what you intend to do with it.