Cleric's Iron Greatsword of Venom

Cleric's Iron Greatsword of Venom rests in the shade of a market stall, a tall silhouette of iron and purpose. The blade is a steel-gray ribbon, broad and slightly curved, its edge caught in a gleam that seems almost greenish where the light catches the etched sigils. Brass inlays thread along the full length like holy vines, outlining wards and a serpent’s coil that narrows toward the point. The grip is wrapped in worn leather, smooth from decades of prayer and blood, with a pommel that bears a single, pale jewel—a teardrop of venom-bound glass that hums faintly when the weapon is swung. The sheath, ink-dark and furrowed with stories, vibrates softly with a promise: this is a weapon that will not simply cut, but carry a message. The cleric-blade carries a lineage whispered among ruin-stalkers and temple couriers. It is said to have been tempered in a pit where venomous rites and healing oaths once tangled, where high vows learned to bend poison toward protection rather than ruin. Those who carry it speak of a balance between mercy and ferocity: the weapon’s aura tastes of antiseptic summers and midnight ambers, a reminder that venom here is a tool of restraint as much as of force. In the keep-at-dawn silence, monks claimed the blade’s true name was a vow spoken aloud only when it was needed—never to boast, always to guide the blade where healing would begin and harm would end. The greatsword’s whispered lore travels with its owner, riding rain-washed streets and candle-lit corridors, until the moment comes to set it to work. In practice, the Cleric’s Iron Greatsword of Venom is less a showpiece and more a narrative engine on the battlefield. A single, deliberate sweep can lay a widening corridor of poison across clustered foes, the venom clinging to armor and skin with a patient, insistent resolve. It doesn’t merely wound; it compounds the struggle, turning a frontline moment into a slow-burning story of damage over time. For healers who must shepherd wounded bodies back to light, the blade’s venom becomes a paradoxical ally: a threat that buys space, buys time, and punishes the unyielding with a quiet, consistent ache. Its heavier cadence invites heavy-armor adversaries to step into the poison’s clockwork, where every second counts toward ending a fight with fewer ritual breaks and more decisive consequence. Markets and murmurs drift around the weapon as surely as the scent of oil and iron. I watched a wheeled cart pause by a sun-worn stall, where a clerk from Saddlebag Exchange weighed the sword with careful fingers, listening to the vendor’s tale of its tempering and oath. They spoke softly of demand for venom-touched arms, of scarcity, and of a price that fluctuates with risk and reverence. The exchange’s coin clinked—a small chorus—before the clerk nodded, not in fear but in recognition of the blade’s duty. The deal was never only about metal and venom; it was about belonging to a story that would outlive the day’s rain and the next march into night—about a weapon chosen to carry both protection and consequence, a trusted companion in a world where every swing writes its own ending.