Cleric's Mithril Spear

Cleric's Mithril Spear gleams with a pale, moonlit sheen, its shaft a flawless ribbon of mithril that catches light along a faint blue vein running its length. The spearhead islong and leaf-shaped, edges razor-thin and endlessly patient, etched with sigils of healing that glow a soft cerulean when life threads through the wielder’s prayers. The grip is wrapped in pale deerskin, worn smooth by years of use, and a small pewter charm—an emerediment of a temple’s vow—dangles near the base, tapping the palm with every measured step. The texture is cool to the touch, a quiet chill that settles into the hand yet seems to pulse with a warmth whenever a whispered blessing threads through a fight. Folklore whispers that the blade was forged by a temple smith who poured the last of a fallen comet’s silver into the mithril, blessing the metal with memories of mercy. It moved from healer to healer through sieges and plagues, its memory expanding with every life it nursed, until it reappeared, almost by fate, in a moonlit stall along a harbor street. In that moment, the spear felt less like a weapon and more like a living story, a chronicle that could be written across skin, stone, and rumor. Those who carried it learned to listen to the world with unusual patience: it strikes with measured reach and discipline, yet heals with a precise warmth that widens a healer’s reach without draining the wielder’s own anchor. In the field, Cleric's Mithril Spear becomes a balance of harm and mercy. A well-placed strike can unleash a healing pulse that travels through nearby allies, stitching together torn courage and fading stamina. When the sigils flare during a rallying cry, the weapon cleanses condi­tions, lifting the weight of exhaustion from the party as surely as a good night’s rest lifts a tired traveler. It is said the spear carries the memory of every life it has saved, and that memory lends an astonishing resolve to those who fight under its pale glow. Market days bring the scent of salt air and waxed leather, and the Saddlebag Exchange hums with traders and templars, with stories traded as freely as coin. Price whispers drift through the crowd, and a well-informed buyer might pay with a careful handshake and a promise to honor the spear’s legacy. In fair weather, the cleric’s mithril spear tends to fetch a respectable sum—roughly 15 to 22 gold, depending on the temple’s need, the buyer’s faith, and how many eyes hope to glimpse the weapon’s patient light. The exchanges are never just about metal and magic; they’re about provenance, about the moment a relic steps from the story into a village square, it being both a tool and a talisman. Those who keep it at their side walk with a quiet, almost ceremonial rhythm, ever aware that mercy is a weapon that can outshine steel when wielded with care, tempered by mithril and memory alike.