Cleric's Mithril Spear

Cleric's Mithril Spear rests on the sunlit display table, its form catching the light in a thousand micro-refractions. The shaft is pale, almost glassy mithril, cool to the touch, with a satin sheen that refuses to glare. The head is a leaf-shaped blade, slender and perfectly balanced, etched with a lattice of sigils that shimmer as if alive. The grip is wrapped in pale leather, worn smooth by hands that have steadied many a cautious step into a shrine’s shadow. A slender wire of silver coils from butt to tip, a reminder of vows sworn long before the wars woke from their sleep. Every facet of the weapon seems to carry a quiet reverence, as if it remembers the oath that first named it the Cleric's Spear. Legends tell of its origin in the moon-tempered forges of a venerable healing order. Sigils carved along the blade map the seven virtues, each line catching a glimmer of starlight when the spear is drawn for a rite. It is said the mithril itself remembers the healers who tempered it: the cold, patient hands, the careful taps of a hammer, the chant that lingered in the air as the oath was pressed into the metal. When the spear is raised, a soft luminescence travels the length of the shaft, like breath through a winter twilight, and those lights gather at wounded foes and wary allies alike, blessing the righteous and steadying the trembling. On the field, the Cleric's Mithril Spear is more than a weapon; it is a conduit. Those who wield it claim a steadied compass in the chaos of battle, a prismatic glow that can widen the reach of healing prayers, refresh ally resolve, and interrupt dark attempts to flee or overwhelm. With every thrust the wielder’s focus tightens, and that focus seems to braid itself into a shield that kinship-bound teammates can lean on. It invites a role that blends offense and mercy, letting a frontline guardian stand fast while whispered warding spreads outward along the spear’s clean arc. It is prized by healers who must hold a line and by spear-wielders who wish to guide their unit’s tempo with a patient, almost ritual gesture. Prices drift like wind over the harbor, and nowhere is that more evident than at Saddlebag Exchange, where traders haggle with ledger-creases on their brows. A thin coin of the shop’s clerk’s ledger notes the spear’s condition, the legibility of its sigils, and the reputation of the order it bears. A buyer might see it offered around two gold, with silver nibs tacked on as the sigils age or brighten; another day the number slides toward two gold and eighty silver, depending on demand and the rumor of a new cleric rally. The point is simple: it is worth what the world remembers of its oath, and what a champion is willing to trade for a moment of protection, a thread of mercy, and a story that keeps moving with every sunrise.