Cleric's Iron Mace of Ice

Cleric's Iron Mace of Ice gleams under the lantern's pale flame, its head a blunt iron disk edged with frost-silver that seems to breathe in the breath of winter. The metal bears years of use: hammered rings, a patina like frozen rain, and a leather-wrapped haft that has been re-tied more times than the caravan has changed routes. Lift it and the air grows colder, a soft hiss of frost escaping the pores of iron. Along the spine runs a sigil of an ice-rose, and set into the core is a tiny shard of glacier that pulses faintly when the room chills. It’s heavy enough to teach restraint, light enough to carry on long patrols, and it feels almost alive when you cradle it close. Lore, In old temple records, this mace is described as a gift from winter itself—forged in the storm’s heart by a cleric-smith who believed mercy can be as hard as steel. Those stories say it was used to seal gates against ice-born wraiths and to steady a frightened crowd during long nights of siege. Wielded by a healer with a tempered hand, the mace channels frost through the cleric’s prayers, turning raw cold into a shield that slows foes, cools fever, and steadies shaking hands. It’s less about brutality and more about a measured mercy that arrives with a bite. In actual play, it’s prized for its dual nature: it smites with ice and heals with heart. A swing snaps a chalk-white arc; enemies catch a cold that lingers, their motions growing sluggish as a pale frost forms at their joints. Meanwhile, supportive skills weave through its presence, bestowing a chill that amplifies healing gusts or buffs the party’s resolve. Those who chase a story-first build will tell you the mace is a symbol: a reminder that strength can be a guardian’s, a ward against the darkness rather than merely its hammer today. Market days turn the mace into a rumor as much as a weapon, and the Saddlebag Exchange—a cobblestoned stall-riddled corner of the market—becomes the meeting point for its price. Here, traders haggle with stories and coin, sliding from silver to gold as investors of memory push a bargain toward a buyer who appreciates what the frost has seen. Some whisper of a price in silver, others of a possibility of trade for a tale or a favor owed. The keeper takes notes, wraps the mace in wool, and promises to deliver its cold mercy to the next owner who will listen to its quiet hymn. It’s not merely gear; it’s a legacy you can heft, a piece of winter that travels with you, shaping the way you move through crowded streets and moonlit ruins alike. The Cleric's Iron Mace of Ice endures because it carries a vow: mercy, tempered by ice, and ready to lay quiet hands on the world when it most needs a steady, icy breath. Its story keeps walking with every trade, every lantern, every winter road. Always moving.