The Rejuvenating Iron Mace rests on a scarred oak table, its head a blunt, perfectly circular disk of hammered iron with veins of pale green running through the metal like a living willow's heartbeat. The surface bears the marks of ages’ tooled patience—hammer swirls and tiny pits that catch every lamplight, turning a dull gray into a quiet, glimmering green when secrets of vitality awaken. The grip is wrapped in weathered leather, darkened by sweat and rain, with frayed cords that bite softly into the palm as if coaxing courage from the bones. Along the haft run slender runes, not random scratches but a careful script that seems to shimmer into legibility when the light is just right, speaking of life, renewal, and a pact with a grove-spirit long thought to be forgotten by the forge fires. In the hands of a patient, skilled wielder, the mace feels more than weight and leverage—it carries a story. It is said to be tempered not just with iron but with a quiet, almost whispered vow to mend what time would otherwise waste. When swung in battle, the Rejuvenating Iron Mace releases a gentle hum, a resonance that gathers the weariness from the air and funnels it into the wielder’s own healing well. It doesn’t erase harm entirely, but it tilts the field in favor of those who walk the frontline: a pulse of vitality that knits shallow cuts and steadies the breath, a soft, blooming vigor that spreads to nearby allies like the first green of spring after a long frost. The ignition of its power feels like leaning into a familiar memory—your hands remember the old, righting touch even when your legs forget the way to the next square of ground. Lorekeepers whisper that the mace’s strength comes from more than wrought metal; it carries a covenant between craftsman and caretaker, between the forge and the field, a belief that tools can be kept from wasting life if tended with care. In practical terms, this translates to a weapon that is rarely just a weapon. Soldiers use it to steady a skirmish, to lend a small, steadying breath to a companion who has pushed too far, too fast. Healers appreciate its aura as a moving anchor in chaotic moments, a whispered reminder to push vitality through the group when the map of the battle grows uncertain. For a veteran on patrol or a caravan guard along a sun-scorched pass, the mace becomes a companion that earns trust through every strike and every recovered heartbeat. Markets weave its legend into the threads of daily trade, and that brings us to Saddlebag Exchange, where this relic tends to surface like a rare coin at a stall amid the clatter of leather and caravan bells. Prices shift with rumor and season, with buyers weighing the memory of its green-lit glow against the wear in their purses. A careful buyer bargains as if negotiating a fragile friendship, knowing that the Mace’s value lies not merely in its iron shell but in the hope it carries—hope that a fight ends not with the last gasps of a fallen foe but with a few more breaths of life for those who still stand. So the Rejuvenating Iron Mace remains more than metal. It is a story in steel: a promise kept in the heat of the forge, a quiet act of mercy in the heat of the fight, and a traveler’s rumor refined into a tool that remembers how to mend a day, one strike at a time.