Cleric's Iron Axe of Vision

Cleric's Iron Axe of Vision gleams with a pale tempered light, its iron blade smooth as river stone and etched with sigils that glow when dawn spills over the horizon. The haft is wrapped in weathered brown leather, the grip ribbed for a sure hold, and the pommel bears a tiny carved eye that seems to watch your fingers as you balance the weight. The runes along the fuller whisper when the blade is drawn, a quiet chorus that speaks of vigilance and mercy, of judgment tempered by light. It was said to be forged in a furnace fed by prayers, tempered by medics and monks who believed sight itself could heal. To carry this axe is to carry a fragment of a long memory, a blade that does not merely cut but clarifies. In battle it shifts the tide for those who stand with you, drawing shadows into the open and sharpening the senses of your fellow clerics as if a veil were being pulled back. In the right hands, the Vision enchantment reveals hidden foes, unspoken traps, and passages otherwise lost to fear. It makes the healer's lantern burn brighter, the warding wards larger, and it binds a group to act with a single, lucid aim. On a market morning, I watched a caravan clamp its wheels beneath a stall and a man in a lilac cloak slide the Cleric's Iron Axe of Vision into the rack like a relic put to use again. We spoke softly about price, about how a weapon of that kind travels not just with a buyer's need but with a memory of prayers spoken over it. The vendor smiled and spoke of demand rising after a skirmish, and how some hunters and wardens sought its edge to guide their teams through fog and night. At Saddlebag Exchange, the ledger labels it a rare find, its value drifting with the tides of supply and rumor. Later, under a dripping awning, I heard a tale of a chapel in the low hills where a cleric-walker kept watch over a ruined city. He said the axe chose its owner, not the other way around, and that in a moment of choosing it would hum with a vision sharper than any dawn. If you can stand the weight and hear the soft music of the runes, you understand that this is less a tool than a compass—an artifact that asks you to do more than swing; it asks you to see, to lead, to heal, and to remember the path you swore to defend. Some evenings I have watched buyers handle it with a pause, testing the balance, listening to that hum. They speak of lineage and duty, of keeping faith with those who carried Orders into night marches. The axe does not merely sever; it invites memory, a discipline in which a swing becomes a vow. In stories told beside smoky fires, its shimmer remains a reminder that vision can save as surely as steel.