Cleric's Iron Sword of the Hydromancer

Cleric's Iron Sword of the Hydromancer gleams with a pale blue iris along its blade, the tempered iron catching light as if a river were running just beneath the metal. The edge is razor-thin, yet stubbornly calm, like a frost-clearing breath over a still pool. Along the fuller, sigils of flowing water wind in aquamarine enamel, each mark a whispered vow to keep the wearer’s hands steady when the world floods with fear. The guard curls outward in wave-like spirals, carved to resemble cresting tides, while the grip is wrapped in eel-leather and dyed in dusk-blue, so the holder never loses purchase even when hands are slick with spray. At the pommel, a pearlescent drop sits, catching the light and refracting it into a tiny, patient rainstorm that seems to listen for nearby water—as if the blade itself is listening for the river’s counsel. Its lore is not hollow decoration. Local clerics once tempered iron for hydromancers who tended wells and kept city bridges from buckling under floodwaters. They believed the metal could drink a portion of the water’s memory, translating it into steadiness for the hand and mercy for the wounded. In crowded markets and ruined shrines alike, the sword traded hands only after a pledge to defend the vulnerable and to heal as much as harm. It’s said that the blade hums when it nears rivers, a soft chorus that tightens the bowstring of fate and makes a healer’s breath a fraction steadier in the smoke of loss. Wielded by those who walk between faith and flood, the weapon becomes less a weapon and more a conduit—part tool, part oath, part quiet lighthouse in the dark. In practical terms, the Cleric’s Iron Sword of the Hydromancer is prized for how it bridges weapon work with water magic. In the thick of combat, it appears to siphon damp air into wells of energy, guiding healing and protection not as separate acts but as a single, flowing choice. A hydromancer-leaning wielder finds their healing pulses more resistant to interruption, and the sword’s water-ward sigils flare when shielding allies, releasing a brief ripple of health and fatigue-removal that feels almost communal. It’s the kind of weapon that changes a skirmish into a story—the moment when a captain’s banner is saved by a surge of cleansing energy, or when a wounded scout is steadied enough to retreat behind a launched wave of water-as-shield. Pricing, of course, follows river-tides. I first spotted a listing on Saddlebag Exchange, a market where traders post relics and rumors with the same breath. The sword was described with clinical reverence, priced in cautious gold and a handful of rare components—bronze rivets from a sunken ship, a pouch of freshwater pearls, a signed vow from the cleric who blessed its temper. The bargaining was patient, the river of offers shifting as the market’s current tugged at memories and worth. In the end, the price settled around a modest two gold and some trade value, enough to tempt a pilgrim or a veteran, but never so much that it forgot the sword’s true calling: to steady the hand that must grant mercy, to guide the healer who must walk through water to find the light beyond it.