Cleric's Iron Mace

Cleric's Iron Mace gleams with a burnished, pewter-like luster, its iron head broad and blunt, the edges softened by years of patient use. The metal bears the telltale scars of a dozen dawn-lit skirmishes, each dent a memory rather than a blemish, like a diary etched in steel. A shallow ring of brass near the base of the head cradles a central sigil—a stylized cross entwined with a circle of runes—faintly radiant as if the scripture itself still breathes there. The haft is a sturdy shaft of ash-dark wood, wrapped in worn leather that has pale scales of grime and oil pressed into the grain, giving the grip a velvet-soft feel even in winter air. A small, chipped brass bead at the pommel catches the light when it’s tilted just so, a last wink of faith in a weapon that has seen prayer and profit in equal measure. Texture tells as much as the eye: the hammering on the head is deliberate, each strike a message as much as a blow, the surface dulled by countless drills and pilgrimages, yet never smooth enough to forget its purpose. When you turn the mace, you can feel the weight through your wrists—the weight not just of metal, but of doctrine: the idea that a man or woman can shield the weak and swing for the betterment of a larger cause. Lore whispers that the Cleric’s Iron Mace was forged at the edge of a broken temple, blessed by healers who rode with refugees and held fast against the encroaching dark. If you listen closely, the sigil seems to hum with promises of mercy reborn in iron, a reminder that power can protect as surely as it can punish. In the world where steel meets faith, the mace is more than a tool of destruction; it is a conduit for care. Guardians and cleric-priests alike wield it to pry open a path through mêlée, its heavy head delivering the force needed to break shields and bend the line back toward safety. Its momentum invites a rhythm: a staccato of swings that puncture fear and gather allies in a clamor of renewed courage. To those who walk the frontline, the Cleric’s Iron Mace becomes a companion in counseling—the way it settles into a fight suggests a healer who is unafraid to stand with the wounded, to speak a calm word while the metal does its hard work. In quieter moments, the sigil on the head glows faintly, as if blessing a vigil over a ruined chapel or a makeshift hospital carved in a ruinous corridor. Market days in Divinity’s Reach have a way of weaving the world’s stories into its wares. At the Saddlebag Exchange, a trader with copper-salted beard and a ledger tattooed on his knuckles examined the mace as one might study an old sermon. He spoke of value in terms of the market’s moods, noting that relics such as this could fetch around two gold coins when the day feels favorable, perhaps more if a collector desires the mace’s history as much as its edge. The price wavers with rumor and demand, but the exchange remains a crossroads where faith meets commerce, and the Cleric’s Iron Mace sits among other relics like a beacon for those who believe that even iron can carry mercy. I left with the sound of its promise ringing in my ears, a reminder that gear is not only worn, but worn into story.