Cleric's Iron Dagger of Ice

Cleric's Iron Dagger of Ice lies cool in my palm, its blade a deep iron gray that seems to drink the glow of the shop lamps. A pale frost clings along the fuller, not decorator’s lacing but a living shimmer that crawls toward the edge with every breath of air. The grip is wrapped in pale, worn leather, the texture like old parchment under finger pads, with a brass cap at its base bearing a moonlit sun wheel—an emblem of a forgotten order that tempered the weapon’s will. Along the blade’s spine, runes coil in frost-etched sigils, warding and healing, tempered to bite only when the wearer calls for it. When you tilt it to the light, the iron hums faintly, a whisper of cold that lives in metal until it finds a foe. This dagger is more than ornament; it is a tool that marks a life lived in a balance between mercy and necessity. The vendors whisper histories as if they were weather reports: a shrine of winter, clerics coaxing ice into steel and binding it with prayer; a siege where a healer’s vow proved stronger than alchemy; rumors of a silent oath to cut through deceit while letting mercy keep pace behind the blade. The lore clings to it like frost to stone—readable on the edge if you listen long enough, and if you believe that winter’s patience can be weaponized in service of the living. In the hands of a practiced wielder, the dagger becomes a quiet engine of control. Each precise strike piles Frost on the target, slowing movement and sapping vigor, while a careful weave of heals and wards keeps the user standing when the world grows sharp. It is not a brute instrument, but a translator: where other weapons shout for blood, Cleric’s Iron Dagger of Ice negotiates with ice magic and mercy in the same breath. In the dungeons and ruined shrines that dot the map, it helps a group keep pace, offering interruption, protection, and a glimmer of frostbound healing to those who bend under fear. On market days, I watch Saddlebag Exchange fill with traders who treat relics as living memories. A dagger like this moves in price with the weather of rumor and the strength of its tempering. Clean specimens fetch handsome marks—low-to-mid golds, a few coins of silver here and there, more when the frost sigils glow bright and the Runic Frosting remains intact. I’ve heard a price whispered in a crowded stall: around twenty-two gold for a dagger with a clear frost bloom and a resonant sigil, slightly less for ones with duller temper. The market breathes, and whispers shift with each new find, as if the winter itself could bloom or wither a sale with a single breath. Saddlebag Exchange is where those whispers settle into a trade, travelers passing through with stories and the steel of winter clutched close. Even as I walk away, the blade seems to thrum with memory: a cleric who prayed for healing with one hand and held winter at bay with the other, a world where mercy can be as sharp as ice, and where a dagger cuts both fear and fate.