Cleric's Iron Mace of Accuracy

Cleric's Iron Mace of Accuracy gleams with a cold pewter sheen, its head broad and squared, edges hammered into channels that catch candlelight like moonlit creases in stone. The iron is dense and cool to the touch, and the surface bears a patina of age, faint striations from countless blows and prayers. A compass-rose sigil is etched on the boss, surrounded by a ring of tiny runes that once guided a healer through chaos. The haft is wrapped in worn leather strips, dark with oil and sweat, the balance near the center so it feels almost like an extension of the arm. When the mace is raised, it hums with a restrained authority, not the crackling spark of a blade, but the quiet certainty of a vow being kept. Lore passes in whispered circles: this tool was forged in a monastery where medics and marshals shared bread and scripture, a weapon that could lay a foe low and, more often, steady a troubled hand in the midst of battle. That dual nature matters in play: the mace's intrinsic Accuracy makes strikes land with steadier consistency, a boon for healers who must time critical hits to refresh allies or pierce the momentary guard of foes. It suits a frontline cleric weaving into a support build, trading raw brawn for measured precision. The sigil glints whenever a hit lands, feeding into traits that convert momentum into cleanses, protections, or applications of boons. In the world, such an item becomes more than metal: it shapes routes through ruined temples, ferries a small cadre of monks across siege-lines, and becomes a symbol for villagers who dream of a healer who still can stand his ground and sway a fight with a single, accurate blow. On the quay facing the harbor, I found the mace resting in a stall at Saddlebag Exchange, where traders speak softly of luck and metal. The dealer weighed it in his palm, naming a price that drifted between gold and credit, shifting with demand. It was more than a tag; a weapon that had steadied a captain's hand could fetch more in a market hungry for relics, even at a premium when history lords over coins. We haggled a moment, and the price settled around twelve gold, sometimes nine on slow days, if a fresh shipment pushed the line. The value is more than coin: a weapon that can improve a hit rate becomes a promise to protect, to land the decisive strike when the world needs it most. With the trade completed and the sun sinking behind the masts, I tucked the mace into a cloth sleeve of my pack and stepped back into the market's murmur. The weight reminded me that artifacts carry a past, a liturgy, and a shared future. Cleric's Iron Mace of Accuracy isn't merely a tool; it's a thread in a larger story—healers who refused to yield, villages that measured hope in a precise strike, and a trade-outpost where a humble weapon found its place in the world’s pilgrimage.