Cleric's Darksteel Imbued Inscription

Cleric's Darksteel Imbued Inscription rests cool in the palm, a slender tile of tempered darksteel whose surface wears a quiet, almost velvet-smooth patina. The metal’s color is the color of a moonless night, and in the light you can see a whisper of blue-black lacquer pooling in the etched sigil at its heart: a haloed disk enfolded by thorned vines, with a tiny, star-like glyph glinting where the cuts catch the air. The edges are beveled and graphite-bright, catching a glimmer as if the surface itself were listening for a prayer, and along the margins a lattice of micro-runes threads through the metal, precise as a locksmith’s final click. If you trace the grain with a fingertip, the texture changes from cool, almost chilly steel to a momentary warmth, an afterglow that suggests the inscription remembers the forge—and the vows spoken over it—long after the heat has faded. Lore around the piece hints at a lineage older than the guilds that charted the map: crafted by the iron-priestesses of a vanishing order, the Darksteel Covenant, who believed metal could cradle a burden as surely as a shield bears a wound. They spoke of consecration under a vault of rain-dark skies, of cooling embers that settled into the growing rune, of prayers poured into the steel until the weapon or armor it graced seemed to breathe with a patient, steadfast mercy. In whispers, people say the inscription once hung in sanctums where the scent of lamp oil and incense mingled, and its presence granted a protector’s calm to those who stood between plague and child, between doubt and dawn. In the bustle of the field, its value is measured not merely in shine or rarity but in what it makes possible on the battlefield and in the backroom of the world’s markets. Slotting this inscription into a piece of cleric-adorned gear—whether a sturdy shield frame, a robed chestpiece, or a ceremonial staff—seems to tie the wearer’s prayers to their armor, turning devotion into practical resilience. The boon it channels is not loud or flashy; it glows softly, smoothing the cadence of heals, softening the burn of fatigue in the stamina bar, and granting a steadier hand when the line between life and loss tightens. Warriors and healers alike feel the difference as the inscription’s influence threads through the layout of a party: a moment longer of protection here, a veil of restored vigor there, a grace note that can tilt an encounter toward survival without overthrowing the tempo of a skirmish. Prices, of course, drift like autumn leaves in a market wind, and the shelves of Saddlebag Exchange tell the tale as clearly as any temple sermon. A careful trader might post a hopeful price, while another player counters with a counter-offer, and the talk spirals into what this particular inscription will fetch when a healer’s needs align with a guild’s scarcity. Last I checked, listings nodded toward gold rather than silver, a reminder that some glories are not merely worn but earned. The inscription’s story remains as enduring as the metal itself: a relic that travels from ruin to repair, from whispered temple to bustling caravan, binding cloth and courage with the patient oath written into its darksteel heart.