Cleric's Iron Sword of Smoldering

Cleric's Iron Sword of Smoldering gleams under an oil lamp, its iron blade mottled with ash-like patina and veins of coppery ember running along the fuller. The edge is sharp, but not cruel; it wears a glow, as if it remembers sermons whispered during the forge. The hilt is wrapped in weathered leather, dyed with rust-red stains that speak of many battles and many prayers. The brass guard catches the lamplight, etched with a sigil—the leaning flame of a guardian's hand—an aura that seems to warm the room even when the room is chilly. When you run a gloved finger along the grip, you can feel a faint tremor, a pulse that climbs as if the blade itself is listening for the rhythm of a heartbeat. In the hands of a cleric-warrior, the sword embodies balance: a weapon that can cut through iron and fear. Its temper remembers oaths sworn to seal desecration and to heal the wounded; the runes speak of a rite in which fire and mercy are not enemies but partners. When swung, embers trail in the wake, not to scorch but to remind allies of courage. In combat, the weapon's heat is a tether to the wearer, its glow intensifying when healing wards are called upon or when the bearer commands the fires of purification to burn away corruption. It is said to siphon a fraction of its wielder's pain into a spark along the blade, a mercy for those who shoulder curses. Market day: The saddlebag Exchange stalls gloom to bright. The sword sits in a velvet-lined case, the vendor reciting its lineage to the curious and skeptical. The price reflects its history: not a mere tool, but a relic that has cooled the fever of battles and warmed the hands of those learning to channel flame. For buyers, it's a choice: wield a weapon that lights a path or hang it as a talisman above a doorway as a reminder of oath. In the Saddlebag Exchange, such swords drift through the market like whispers, priced by provenance and condition. A collector may pay a premium for a blade with a healer's tale; a pragmatic fighter bargains for a fair sum, knowing its strength lies in harmonizing strike with blessing. On a crumbling rampart at dusk, the Cleric's Iron Sword of Smoldering finds its place beside a kneeling survivor. When the blade touches ash, warmth climbs into the air, coaxing a stubborn flame back to life in a brazier that refuses to die. The cleric who wields it speaks softly of mercy and discipline—the blade a reminder that power without restraint is a poor lamp in a dark city. In patrols, it acts not only as a weapon but as a beacon—a badge for towns that still remember to burn away despair without burning the people they protect. Its legend is a rumor at first, then a known truth, as more hands take up its weight and learn to guide heat, not to scorch hope.