Cleric's Iron Dagger

Cleric's Iron Dagger rests on a faded velvet cloth, catching a sliver of dawn as if it were a captive spark. The blade is a slender ribbon of iron, hammered into a straight, leaf-like shape with a keen edge that hums faintly when drawn through air. Its surface wears a matte patina, pocked with tiny hammer marks and a whisper of rust that refuses to fully surrender. A shallow fuller runs along one side, catching light and guiding the eye toward a carved cross-crest near the guard. The hilt is wrapped in weathered leather, dark as a shadow at dusk, held fast by copper rivets that gleam with honest wear. The pommel is a simple iron bead, cool and heavy in the hand, as if it wants to remind you that mercy and steel can walk the same road. Inscribed along the blade’s spine are runes—not flashy flourishes, but a patient script of sun, bones, and a healing vine—that speak of a covenant between healer and blade, a promise that each cut is tempered by care. This dagger was not merely a weapon but a reliquary of the Cleric orders who tended the wounded on ruined streets. In the old days, the clerics believed iron kept corruption at bay, and so they tempered blades for use in both warding rites and field medicae. When a wounded soldier whispered thanks, or a priest sealed a blessing onto a fresh scar, the Cleric's Iron Dagger seemed to become more than metal—an extension of a vow to mend where ruin pressed the hardest. In the world, the dagger's significance in gameplay is that quick, decisive strokes complement mobile healers who can heal others while delivering a controlled sting to enemies. The blade's enchantments—a modest blessing that sharpens focus, heals minor wounds, and cleanses small debuffs—make it a staple for a mobile healer who must step into the fray and withdraw. Its balance invites precise taps in crowded streets, a pace that keeps you alive long enough to tend a bruised comrade and vanish before a stronger foe spots you. On a sunlit stall at a busy border market, I watched the Cleric's Iron Dagger sit among newer steel and weathered relics. A clerk with ink-streaked fingers spoke softly of demand among scavengers and pilgrim-scholars who travel light. The price—12 silver and a copper for a leather thong—felt fair for a blade with such history. At Saddlebag Exchange, ledgers found a quiet audience; traders exchanged nods, and a former cleric whispered that the blade had once saved a life. Take it into your own story and the dagger becomes more than metal. It becomes a rumor in a hall, a whispered oath at a bedside, a tool that remembers the names of those who offered aid when the city burned. The Cleric's Iron Dagger carries forward the promise that even in a world of bronze and ash, mercy can be sharp, precise, and ready to cut through the night. Its presence in any campfire tale hints at concealed mercy in hard times.