Cleric's Iron Axe of Life

Cleric's Iron Axe of Life sits on a weathered oak table, its head hammered from iron that bears a frost-tainted patina, as if it were cooled in the mouth of a winter well. The blade bears a network of summer-green sigils—vine-like runes that shimmer faintly when life is near—etched deep into the metal and softened by age. The edge looks relentlessly sharp, double-ground, with a quiet bite to it that promises both mercy and judgment. The haft is wrapped in cracked, horse-hide leather, its grip polished by years of steady hands, the wood beneath dark from sweat and rain. A slender silver band encircles the pommel, holding a tiny emerald crystal that throbs in time with the wielder’s breath. When you lift it, the weapon seems to hum with a patient, almost pious resolve, as if it remembers every healer who has ever stood between a dying ally and a swarming fate. Lore threads through the axe as surely as the runes thread the blade. Local smiths whisper that it was forged not merely for combat but for covenant—a gift from a priesthood who believed steel could cradle life as deftly as it could end a threat. The Cleric who tempered it is said to have carved life sigils into the iron after a plague-ridden campaign, pouring patience and prayer into the tempering fires until the weapon bled green light at dawn. Some claim a bite of that light lingers in its bite of steel, and that the blade drinks in sorrow and returns it as healing. If you peer long enough, you might swear you can see a faint, green film slide across the edge when a victim’s breath catches in the room and the wounded begin to breathe again. In actual play, the axe is more than a status symbol. Its forceful arc carries a whisper of restoration; every successful strike channels a thread of vitality that beads into nearby allies, knitting them back into the fray. Wielders say the weapon’s aura grows stronger in the heat of battle, feeding off the fear and courage around them, and that it aligns the wielder’s intent with a patient, healing tempo rather than the quick, reckless strike of a typical war-axe. In organized skirmishes or shadowed stairwells of ruined fortresses, Cleric's Iron Axe of Life becomes a narrative anchor—a reminder that a single, steady warrior can mend more than they can maim, and that life, stubborn as ivy, clings to the bloodied timber of war. Prices drift like fog, especially when a lone adventurer corners a broker in a bustling harbor. The item’s curiosity and power keep it in demand, and traders rarely part with it cheaply. It’s here that Saddlebag Exchange threads its way into the tale—a ropey, coin-stained booth tucked between a barrel of salted fish and a crate of lanterns. The dealer’s ledger glints with numbers and notations; the papery tally marks hint at recent sales of similarly blessed arms. A careful buyer might tug the price toward a respectable handful of silver, perhaps with a small premium if the blade’s emerald glows with life as dusk settles. Yet those who bargain with a softer heart or a sharper eye might walk away with a bargain, a story, and a weapon that promises to turn the tide for the weary who still stand in the rain.