Cleric's Iron Mace of Chilling

The Cleric's Iron Mace of Chilling glints dull-blue in the torchlight, its iron head the size of a clenched fist and etched with frost-laden runes that seem to move when you blink. The edges bite at whatever they meet, and a thin ribbon of frost crawls along its contours as if the weapon remembers the cold born in some long-forgotten temple. Its shaft is stout ebony, lacquered to a shine that catches every glimmer, wrapped in pale leather straps that map a traveler’s life in crease and scar. The butt is crowned with a pewter pommel bearing a mercy sigil—the slow circle of a vow that marks the cleric who wields it. Touch it and you’ll feel the room grow cold, breath fogging, as if winter itself leans in to hear the oath spoken through metal. Its lore runs as cold as its surface. Forged beneath a monastery that bound frost and faith, the mace carried a frost-spirit in iron so mercy might walk the world in three directions: to the dying, to the living, and into the dark beyond. Those who claim to hear the engraving whisper say the spirit hums with every swing, offering a benediction that chills the air enough to slow a charging foe. In the telling of caravans and guardians, the mace travels with a patient mercy, appearing at crossroads where hope wavers and at the front lines where the living seek shelter from the night. It’s a relic that makes the battlefield feel intimate, a sentinel of winter standing between ruin and repair. In combat the Cleric's Iron Mace of Chilling asserts itself as a tempo-shaper. A single strike sends a gust of frost that clings to armor and sinew, applying Chill to those touched and slowing their steps as if plucked from a slower clock. The effect is modest on its own, but in concert with the healer’s prayers and the party’s timing it becomes a lever: a moment to press forward, to pin enemies, to give the front line a chance to breathe. Veterans speak of pairing the mace with cleansing rites that peel away other conditions, letting the frost linger long enough to keep pressure on the fight while the cleric tends wounds and wards. Word of the weapon drifts through the market nights, and buyers weigh its weight, its history, and its price against the stories it carries. I watched a seller at Saddlebag Exchange trade for it, the stall’s canvas slick with rain, the counter crusted with coins and chatter. The posted price—the note pinned with careful handwriting—came to 2 gold and 40 silver, copper tossed in for luck and as a nod to the smiths who coaxed mercy from iron. The exchange smelled of leather and rain, of journeys yet to be taken, and for a moment the mace felt less a tool and more a doorway into a larger tale waiting to be told. Swing true, and listen for the frost that hints at mercy. The Cleric's Iron Mace of Chilling has a place in the story, if you have the courage to let winter speak through it.