Cleric's Iron Sword of Agony

Cleric's Iron Sword of Agony gleams with a dull, iron-grey patina that catches the braziers’ flicker and drinks it in, as if the metal itself is thirsty for confession. The blade is broad and straight, its edge tempered to a whispering, almost merciless glow, with a fuller carved along its length and sigils that coil in crimson-black enamel like thorned vines. The runes seem to breathe when the weapon rests against skin, faintly warm to the touch, while the crossguard arches in two skeletal swoops that cradle the blade and catch the light with a wince of iron resolve. The grip is wrapped in leather the color of dried river clay, stitched with copper thread that warms to the touch, and the pommel holds a small, blood-red gem that glints with a pale, almost helpless light when the sword is called to duty. In its lore—the kind whispered in candlelit corridors of old sanctuaries—this blade was forged by a cleric who learned to convert pain into protective power, a paradoxical mercy that cut both ways. They say the weapon remembers every oath spoken in its presence and every patient cry of those who trusted its bearer to stand where mercy falters. It is not merely steel; it is a reliquary of choices, a reminder that healing can require a seed of agony to take root. In gameplay, the Cleric's Iron Sword of Agony moves through the world like a quiet current that both restrains and preserves. Wielded by someone who threads protection into offense, it carries a certain discipline: when it draws blood, the weapon’s aura intensifies, channeling a portion of that pain into the wielder’s healing aura and into a modest amplification of ally survivability. It rewards restraint as much as courage, rewarding those who balance frontline grit with careful, compassionate timing. The blade’s signature feel comes from its synergy with support-oriented builds—the kind that pivot between shielding allies and puncturing lines of defense—where every strike is a reminder that mercy can be a weapon and a shield at once. Its edge, though deadly, is tempered by an ethic: the more the wielder protects those in peril, the more the weapon’s glow steadies the hands of the healer nearby, the more it seems to whisper, in a voice only the faithful hear, that agony, when guided by purpose, can mend what panic cannot. Price and provenance drift through caravans and markets as unobtrusively as a rumor. In the rough-hewn stalls of Saddlebag Exchange, a seasoned trader will speak of it as a rare find, something that travels with stories as much as it travels with iron. A buyer might trade a handful of gold and a relic or two, or barter with a map of uncharted routes and a vow to safeguard a cache of amulets, and the vendor nods, recognizing that the sword’s true value is measured not by coin alone but by the credibility of the hands that wield it. When the blade changes hands, the market buzzes with the old question: is mercy worth the cost of pain, or does power take its own price? The sword answers with a patient, unflinching gleam, ready to be drawn once more into a world that needs mercy sharpened into action.