Cleric's Iron Sword of Chilling

Cleric's Iron Sword of Chilling catches the lamp-lit air and throws it back in a slice of blue-white ice, the blade a tempered arc of iron that seems almost to hum with cold. Its edge glints with a frost-bitten sheen, as if the metal learned to breathe in the same breath as the north wind. The grip is wrapped in worn leather, darkened by years of handling, and the guard is etched with sigils that look as if they were carved from a glacier’s memory—slow, deliberate, patient. When you lift it, the weight sits in your hand like a held breath, a certainty that this blade was made to cut through both flesh and fear. The blade’s tip narrows to a keen point, but near the hilt a subtle ridge runs along its spine, a reminder that even healing weapons can bear a tempered edge. There’s a chill in the air around it, a tiny cyclone of frost that never quite leaves your fingers, as if the sword keeps a portion of winter in its pocket. The lore woven into its grain speaks of clerics who walked frost-lit corridors and tended to the wounded beneath iron arches. They tempered the steel not only with flame and forge, but with vows—oaths to shield the weak while not abandoning the stubborn injury of a world that often leans toward brutality. Some say the weapon was blessed by healers who learned to listen for the whisper of frost in a dying breath, a reminder that mercy can arrive with a bite as cold as the truth. In the narratives passed among smiths and story-tellers, the sword’s chill is never mere cold; it is a patient discipline that buys seconds for the healer, seconds that can be the difference between life and loss. It’s a tangible memory in metal, a tool turned talisman that glints whenever courage is asked to stand its ground. In gameplay, the Cleric's Iron Sword of Chilling is not just a striking appearance; it is a companion for those who find themselves at the hinge of mercy and conflict. Its signature is a Chill on hit, a slowing pulse that buys distance and clarity for the wielder's party to reposition, to heal, to guard. For a frontline healer who must protect a fragile window of opportunity, the sword becomes a thoughtful partner: you press the blade into danger, you tilt the field, and the Chill compounds with cleansing and protection skills to create that moment where a fallen ally might rise, steadier than before. It’s the kind of weapon that invites a narrative—not merely a kill, but a response, a decision made with frost in the lungs and hope in the hand. Prices drift through the market like breath on a cold day, and Saddlebag Exchange is where such drift becomes a story you can follow. I watched a dealer lay the Cleric’s Iron Sword of Chilling on the counter, a tag taped in careful script: around 9 gold, 40 silver, with the talk of a few coppers worth of markup depending on the day’s mood and the blade’s frost-etched gleam. Others offered lighter, more temperate variants, but the true believer’s sword—the one that carries a tale of mercy and frost—rarely sits long enough to be forgotten. So it endures, not as a mere tool but as a companion that knows the sharpness of winter and the gentleness of a saving touch. The blade, the vow, and the market’s murmurs weave together a single, winding story—one where a healer’s mercy travels on iron, and winter itself lends its breath to the cause.