Cleric's Iron Greatsword of Force

Cleric's Iron Greatsword of Force gleams gray-blue in the workshop lamplight, a broad blade whose hammer-forged edge bears micro-serrations like frost on steel. The iron skin is pocked with hammer marks, each a memory of the anvil, and a rune-line runs the blade, pulsing faintly with a pale azure glow whenever it nears life. The guard is stout, carved in the likeness of a hand reaching outward, fingers splayed as if to push away the night; the grip is wrapped in worn leather, stitched with white thread that has yellowed with years of use. At the pommel sits a small sigil of a sunward order, worn smooth by countless grips, a reminder that this weapon was forged not for conquest but for healing through force. When you heft it, weight steadies the forearm, and the sword hums with a quiet, almost holy energy, as if listening for the heartbeats of those in distress. This greatsword's lore ties it to a long-vanished hospitalage—an order of clerics who believed that power without mercy is merely loud pain. They tempered the blade with prayers and iron, infusing it with Force, a radiant current that can crack stone and, crucially, mend a broken shield from within. Legends insist the weapon was passed from healer to sentinel during the siege at the river gate, when arrows stitched the air and the wounded learned to lean on any strength that would not falter. In those hours the Cleric's Iron Greatsword of Force became less a weapon than a pledge—that every forceful strike could become a blessing, if the hand behind it refused to forget mercy. In play, the sword rewards patience and pace. It is a two-handed greatsword that clears a line with sweeping arcs, then drives a single, devastating blow that shatters enemy blocks and rattles the bones of the unyielding. Those who wield it often couple its reach with timing, using the Force-charged strike to interrupt foes just long enough to seed a healing flourish for allies—or to echo the old vow that power should be used to protect as much as to prevail. Its aura encourages a route through chaos: push, stumble, recover, repeat, until the battlefield sighs and the enemy barrier breaks. On market days, the word travels from stall to stall like a wheeze of wind through the marketplace. I found Cleric's Iron Greatsword of Force tucked among a row of glistening blades at Saddlebag Exchange, its price inked in chalk on a parchment tag. They asked a hefty sum—two gold two silver for a blade with stories heavy enough to slow a charge—and the keeper insisted the sigil's glow betokened more than sharpness. Buyers haggled, some paid and left with a candlelit grin, others stepped away, listening to the blade's faint warmth as if it whispered of distant sanctuaries. In the end, I bought not just a weapon but a memory—a weapon that will keep faith alive in the heat of battle and soften the crack of victory with mercy.