Cleric's Iron Shield of Fire

Cleric's Iron Shield of Fire sits in the morning light, a broad, convex disk of tempered iron whose surface bears a slow, ash-gray patina that catches the sun and returns it as a stubborn glow. The rim is bound with brass, rivets marching like a careful prayer, and at its center a medallion is etched with a stylized flame wrapped in an intricate lattice of runes that seem to shimmer whenever the air grows warm. Behind the front, the leather grip bears the weathering of years—scratches from thorns, glimpses of oil and salt, and the soft grain of wood wearing into the palm of a steady hand. Lifted, it radiates a warmth that brushes the skin with a remembered heat—almost a whisper of the forge and of a room where chants rose above the clash of steel. It feels less like armor and more like a story poured into metal, a reminder that protection can be a vow as much as a shield. The lore stitched into its making places it among the Emberwrights of a long-forgotten temple, where clerics tended relics and the faithful believed warmth could be a shield against despair. They spoke of a time when a dragon’s breath, caught in a holy flame, was broken by a circle of iron and prayer. The shield is said to carry that memory: a ward that not only pushes back harm but gathers it, singed into the runes so the wearer’s comrades might stand a heartbeat longer. In practice, a guardian or healer who shoulders the Cleric's Iron Shield of Fire becomes the moving sanctuary—a barrier forged from devotion that blunts blades and banners alike, while the flame motif hints at a duty to protect with both body and breath. In combat, the shield acts as a frontline beacon. When the wielder blocks, the sigils flare, and a hot, but contained, heat-lilt spills outward in a short ripple of flame that scorches nothing indiscriminately but unsettles anything foolish enough to press through. The shield’s aura can peel away the edge of fear in the heat of a skirmish, granting nearby allies a moment of steadiness as if they had caught their breath in the eye of a storm. And because the relic was blessed with a “fireward” itch of magic, it tends to punish aggression toward the vulnerable—the healer finally able to steady a trembling hand, the archer who had begun to doubt their aim. The shield’s significance reaches beyond the battlefield into the market where stories travel as readily as steel. In the bustling Saddlebag Exchange, where caravans barter, a pristine Cleric's Iron Shield of Fire might hang between two stalls like a bound wind. A veteran trader names a price in gold, though it’s understood the tag shifts with the mood of the crowd and the lamp-lit gossip of its owners. A fair example—bright and unmarked—could fetch around forty-some gold, while a well-traveled piece, etched with more scorch marks of battles fought, might settle into the lower thirties. And some lucky finders trade a night’s lodging, a crate of salves, or a handful of rare inks for a piece that feels less like equipment and more like a keepsake. So this shield moves through the world as a quiet protagonist, a relic that teaches those who carry it that strength and mercy can stride side by side. It is not merely iron and flame; it is a reminder that protection, when given with care, can shape a larger story—one shielded breath at a time.