Cleric's Iron Greatsword

Cleric's Iron Greatsword glints with a cold, pewter sheen, its broad blade catching light like a winter river. The iron feels smooth beneath the fingers, cool and unyielding, with a length that suggests both mercy and menace in equal measure. A faint temper line runs along the spine, a whisper of fire once poured into the metal, now tempered into quiet strength. The fuller carves a slender ditch down the blade, catching dust motes as if it remembers every step of a march long past. The crossguard is a simple, sturdy bar, etched with sigils that look like old prayers pressed into steel, barely legible yet somehow insisting on their own dignity. The grip is wrapped in weathered leather, darkened by sweat and travel, and the pommel bears a small, iron ring that could have served as a tether for a cloth flag or a shield strap in a tighter moment of defense. It feels lived-in, like a blade that has seen a hundred dawns and still wakes at the first call to action. Lore threads through the weapon as surely as it threads through the banners of the city: this greatsword was forged for healers who refused to surrender the frontline, tempered not just in flame but in oath. The inscriptions speak in a patient, almost ritual language—sigils of protection and mercy interlaced with the makers’ marks—suggesting the blade carried a vow as much as a weapon. Some tell of a cleric who walked between wards and battlements, keeping the weak from the edge of collapse, and of a sword that grew heavier with every life saved, lighter only when a threat to the innocent receded. Whether the tale is a memory of a single hero or a compass for a creed that endures, the Cleric's Iron Greatsword feels built for that shared purpose: to stand firm, to cut with purpose, and to remind those who follow that mercy can arrive with the same swing as judgment. In combat, it makes its presence known with a measured, decisive rhythm. The blade’s weight yields a sweeping arc that can crack shields and carve through embers of battle, a fit companion for a guardian who wishes to shield allies and strike with intention. Its edge invites controlled aggression—the kind that feeds a frontline’s confidence while your teammates ride the flow of a coordinated push. There’s a stories-in-motion quality to the weapon, as if every strike writes a line in a larger narrative about endurance, sacrifice, and the stubborn hope that healing can travel with and not apart from the fight. The wielder isn’t just swinging for impact; they’re carrying a tale forward, chapter by heavy chapter, until the siege is a memory and the march resumes toward whatever dawn the next skirmish promises. Pricing in the markets never reads like a sermon, but the exchange of value does carry a similar weight. I watched a clerk at Saddlebag Exchange square the coins with a careful eye, the price hovering around seventy silver for a blade with this much history and polish. The stall’s owner spoke of trade-ins and potential bargains for veterans of the road, of bartered components and remnant charms that could tilt the ledger in favor of a patient buyer. It’s a market of stories as much as metal, where a blade like the Cleric's Iron Greatsword doesn't just cut through armor but through the noise of a busy world, binding memory to tool, and tool to mission.