Cleric's Iron Dagger of Battle

Cleric's Iron Dagger of Battle sits on a carved velvet display, its blade catching lamplight with a dull silver gleam that seems to breathe as you turn it. The iron is matte but stubbornly cool to the touch, pockmarked with hammer marks that tell of a forge's stubborn patience. A narrow fuller runs down its length, catching stray glints of flame when the blade is moved just so. The tang is wrapped in aged leather, tighter where the palm would rest, and brass rivets bite into the grip with a soft rasp. At the crossguard, a small sigil—a sunburst straddling a crossed spear and staff—speaks of mercy tempered by discipline. On the pommel, a fleck of pale stone, maybe moon-touched quartz, glimmers if you catch it right; it’s as if the blade keeps a quiet memory of the dawn. Lore says this blade was forged in the fires beneath the Dawnspire Monastery, where healers learned to bend blade and bone toward a prayer for the living. It survived the monastery’s final vigil when raiders broke the outer walls. The clerics pressed the dagger into service not merely as weapon but as ward: a shard of iron that could sever lies as deftly as sinew, a reminder that a healer’s courage can be a shield. Some say it hums when a line of life is drawn, a faint, stubborn note like a hymn remembered too late. Others claim the dagger drinks the fear of the field, trading it for a steadier hand and a steadier breath. In practice, the Cleric's Iron Dagger of Battle is less about brutish smash and more about precise, purposeful strikes. It suits a hybrid style that favors a blade’s speed to puncture armor and a healer’s instinct to guard a retreating comrade. Light, quick stabs to disrupt, followed by a cleansing arc of energy that refreshes nearby allies; it can be used to bait a skirmish and recover momentum, weaving into a larger rhythm of battle where courage is measured not in noise but in the soft ecstasy of not giving up. Even the aura of its runes—etched glyphs that resemble a shield in bloom—seems to encourage restraint, to remind the bearer that healing and harm are two sides of one coin. Market chatter in the port towns threads the story together. A trader at Saddlebag Exchange laid the blade on the counter with a smile that had seen many markets and asked for a price that reflected its history as much as its edge. We spoke of twelve gold pieces, plus a handful of silver, as if the dagger carried its own change of seasons. He offered a quiet trade, taking a token from a traveler’s palm and nodding toward a future sale. The price felt fair, more an invitation than a sale, a reminder that some things are meant to be carried by hands shaped by both mercy and battle. If you cradle it, you feel the weight of a memory—of a monastery, of hurried prayers, of a patient hand steadying another in the hurry of war. The Cleric's Iron Dagger of Battle is not only a tool; it is a story pressed into iron, a keepsake in the pocket of a world that never stops fighting for its own, through time.