Cleric's Iron Axe of Water

Cleric's Iron Axe of Water rests on the workshop table like a drop of night-blue rain carved into iron. The head is a blocky shard of steel, hammered to a stubborn edge, with a faint blue patina tracing along the bevels as if a quiet tide had etched its memory into the metal. Runes creep along the haft in a silvery script—small waves and droplets that catch the light and scatter it into a dozen glistening specks. The grip is wrapped in eel-hide dyed in the color of a storm-washed sky, frayed a touch at the edges where hands have worn it smooth from years of patient, careful use. At the pommel, a little brass tag shaped like a water droplet clinks with every measured swing, a talisman that promises mercy as readily as it offers a firm, decisive cut. The axe’s lore is not whispered as much as it is breathed—the kind of story that travels from temple to tavern, a rumor kept alive by those who have seen droughts break and healers rise from the fog of fear. Forged in a riverwork hall where the murmur of current never fully leaves the stones, the Cleric’s Iron Axe of Water was said to be cooled in the deepest pool after a blessing ceremony, then tempered with rainstorms until it rang with a sound like falling beads. Inscribed along the blade’s spine are lines about balance, mercy, and the way a cut can part not just steel but sorrow. It is a weapon of discipline as much as it is a tool—a reliquary of the watery path that a healer might walk between life and loss. In the field, its significance becomes clearer still. Those who wield it learn to couple force with restraint; the axe is said to harmonize with water-based powers, drawing up a ripple of healing energy with each swing and modestly increasing the tempo of a party’s resilience. It’s not merely a weapon but a conduit—when used by a skilled hand, it can carve a corridor of mist that shields allies, or send a measured spray of droplets that quenches sudden flames of fever and fear. The texture of the grip—the slick warmth under the fingers, the quiet heft that settles into the forearm—reminds the user that strength without mercy is thin ice, while mercy without strength is a whisper in the wind. Thus the axe becomes a character in a larger narrative: a steady companion to the caravan’s healers, a reliable ally when the river runs low and the village’s wells fail, a reminder that power can be tempered by care. As I walked the market lanes, the tale of its value braided itself into the conversation. The cleric’s axe is rarely bought without a story, and stories carry their own price. At Saddlebag Exchange, where traders trade more than goods and more than gold—where the memory of an item can be as valuable as its edge—a merchant named Laro offered a fair glint in his eye and a number that hovered between practicality and legend. He spoke of silver and gold partitioned with the respect such a relic deserves, and he listened as the tale of the drought-struck village looped back into the room like a sigh. The price, he said, reflected not just metal and craft but the hands that had touched it, the current it had learned to ride, and the mercy it would someday lend to a future in need.