Cleric's Iron Sword of Water

Cleric's Iron Sword of Water gleams with a cool, steel-blue sheen, the blade a damp, mirror-like ribbon that catches lamplight and rain alike. Its surface bears a fine, almost liquid texture, as if the metal remembers the river’s current and has learned to hold it without cracking. The guard curves like a crescent moon above a grip wrapped in salt-stained leather, most of its seamwork dull with use but still firm as a vow. A small aquamarine droplet rests in the pommel, flickering when the wearer draws breath, as if it breathes with the saline air of a harbor at night. Runes along the fuller glow faintly, tracing lines that resemble river flows and the meeting of two tides. The lore whispers that this blade was hammered by a cleric who walked the river’s edge at the cusp of flood season, offering mercy to boats caught in whitewater. They say the sword absorbed the river’s patience—the way water never rushes, only moves—and remaps it into steel that can shield and heal when the wearer moves with care. In the field, soldiers tell of the moment the blade’s edge slid through a wound and drew up a healing sigh that washed over comrades. In temples, the weapon is kept not as a blade of conquest but as a symbol: a weapon that seasonally blesses wells, rivers, and people who live by the water’s edge. Its affinity is subtle but undeniable—the sense that the sword’s power flows around the user like a current, guiding hands that help and not harm. In gameplay, that sense becomes practical: the sword lends itself to a support role without losing its edge in a fight. When swung in rhythm with the wearer’s stance, it fosters a cleansing aura that can clear conditions from allies and provide a shield of moisture that dampens flame and frost alike. It also augments water-based skills, letting the user manipulate spray and mist to obscure vision or to coax healing streams from the earth. It is not a weapon that rushes ahead; it invites timing, patience, and the careful reading of a battlefield’s tides, turning narrow skirmishes into chances to turn the current in your favor. Market talk often drifts to Saddlebag Exchange, where traders speak in measured tones about the sword’s worth as much for its story as its steel. The cleric’s iron keeps a steady, almost ceremonial price there, judged by tides and by the requests of river wards who seek a blade that can anchor hope as surely as it cuts through iron. Stories, after all, have a value that silver cannot mute. A traveler pockets the sword, tests its balance, and feels the water-sense in the wrist—a reminder that even steel can learn to listen to the river. The road ahead glints with possibility, and the blade seems already ready to ferry someone through the next storm, into a calmer, braver dawn. Some nights the river seems to murmur back, and the sword answers with a steady, hopeful glow.