Cleric's Iron Dagger of Energy gleams on the table like a shard torn from a winter sky—a blade of weather-worn iron, its surface pocked and glossy with age, the edge catching light with quiet menace. The metal wears a whisper of patina, as if it has learned patience by standing in rain for years, and along the fuller runes shade a coppery glow that shudders faintly when touched by moonlight. The hilt is wrapped in pale leather, slick with polish and history, with a small brass guard sculpted into a delicate lotus that never quite settles its bloom. Set into the pommel is a pale citrine crystal, its facets catching the room’s warm glow and throwing a cool spark back toward the bearer’s knuckles. It is not a blade meant to spill chaos, but to conduct a steadier, more purposeful current—like a quiet apology for violence, turned toward mercy. When you lift it, the dagger sighs with a soft vibration, a heartbeat you can feel along your forearm. Legends insist the iron was tempered in a monastery long swallowed by the hills, where clerics bound stray energies into metal so they could be called forth at need. The result is a weapon that feels at once ancient and intimate, as if the blade remembers every healer who pressed it to a patient’s side and coaxed life back from the brink. A touch of the sigils sends a blue-green thread of light twining up the blade, as if energy itself were threading through your bones, promising precision and steadiness more than swiftness or spectacle. In the right hands, it becomes less about a single strike than about a careful choreography of force—each motion a conduit for a safer, surer healing. In the field the dagger’s true gift reveals itself through use. It channels energy—no gale, no thunder, but a measured current that whispers into your most trusted spells. Wielders discover that the iron holds a modest reservoir, enough to quicken a healing surge or empower a defensive ward without exhausting the wielder’s reserves. The sigils respond to will and wind—when you draw the dagger in a moment of peril, you feel a tether tighten between patient and healer, a short-lived surge that smooths a ragged breath, steadies a flickering shield, or mends the widening gap between despair and courage. It’s a tool built for resilience: not flashy, but reliable, a quiet ally that turns hard-won experience into steady recovery. The dagger’s value isn’t just in its metal or magic, but in its place within a broader economy and ethos. Traders speak of it in hushed tones as a patient’s instrument as much as a soldier’s armament. I heard mention of Saddlebag Exchange during a dusk market by the harbor, when a vendor laid the dagger out on a velvet cloth and measured its glow against the price in silver coins. The talking points shifted between supply, demand, and the story etched into the runes—eventually the seller agreed to a fair trade that included silver and a sealed vial of lunar tincture. The market, like the blade, favors balance; you pay for precision and tradition, you gain a dependable edge in the hands of someone who respects what energy can do when guided by care and caution.