Cleric's Iron Sword of Air

Cleric's Iron Sword of Air gleams under the torchlight, its blade a cool, even iron that seems to drink the glow and return a pale wind-touched shine. The edge is keen as a winter blade, the fuller etched with sigils of a long-dormant order. The grip is wrapped in worn leather, smelling faintly of oil and rain, and the iron guard curves like a small wing, protecting palm and knuckles. At the pommel, a bronze feather hints at the blade's bond with the element it commands: air. When you draw it, the air itself seems to hush for a beat, as if listening for command. Carved into its side is a story: a temple smith who, in a storm-dark year, coaxed the breath of the skies into the steel and blessed it to cut through fear as well as flesh. In old chants, the Clerics of the North Wind carried this blade into storm lanes, letting its edge ripple with gusts that shiver across the battlefield. Those who fought with it insist the weapon doesn't merely strike; it unsettles the air around a foe, muffling sound, lifting dust, and giving allies a fleeting edge. On the battlefield, the Cleric's Iron Sword of Air is less about raw damage and more about choreography. A single practised sweep can foretell a cascade: a gust pushing a shield out of alignment, a crack of wind that interrupts a healer's chant, a brief window in which a wounded ally can slip away from a trap and toward safety. The weapon pairs unusually well with a supportive build, where offense is tempered by warding winds and small breathes of recovery. In dungeons and wilderness hunts, the blade's aura seems to carry with it a promise that the air itself will carry your name if you stand fast long enough to see the next storm roll in. Prices drift like weather, especially at Saddlebag Exchange, where caravans set up their stalls in a rolling bazaar that smells of leather and ink. A cleric-friendly sword like this tends to move between eighteen and twenty-eight gold, depending on condition and the willingness of the seller to barter for a map or a scarred shield. I watched a traveler trade a scroll of warding and a pocketful of silver for the blade, only to see a rival offer the same coin and a vow to fetch a spare hilt from a temple warden. The exchange hums with that ironclad certainty of market talk, the kind that makes you believe every blade carries a story worth a little extra coin. Out on the road, tucked in a saddlebag or strapped to a caravan's rack, the sword becomes more than an artifact; it becomes a thread that binds pilgrim, protector, and storm-chaser together. For those who remember the old prayers, the Cleric's Iron Sword of Air is a reminder that power can be purposeful: a blade that fights, heals, and whispers of open skies. Its wind-wrought mercy finds its way home.