Cleric's Iron Greatsword of Perception

Cleric's Iron Greatsword of Perception rests on a weathered pedestal, its blade a broad, pewter-sheened slab that catches the candlelight with a quiet hunger. The iron is subtly dimpled from a patient forge, each strike of the hammer leaving a memory in the metal. A fuller bends along its length like a narrow river, catching glints and then swallowing them in shadow. Runes crawl along the edge—an eye inlaid with ash-brass, concentric rings that seem to throb faintly when the room grows tense. The grip is wrapped in patched leather, scent of resin and oil clinging to the hand, while the guard curves in a patient, protective arc. The whole thing carries a low hum, almost a heartbeat, as if it’s listening for truth before it answers a strike. Legends tie the blade to a cloister of healers who learned to see through smoke and deceit, to read a battlefield the way a physician reads a pulse. They tempered iron with prayer, binding sight to steel so that a wielder could mend a wound with the same breath that ends a threat. It is said the blade remembers the first vow laid upon it: to expose lies and shield the vulnerable. When drawn, the sword does not blaze with mere glory; it carries a patient radiance, a whisper urging the holder to stand firm where fear would bend them. In this sense, Perception and iron become a single witness, a sworn confidant in the chaos of war. In the field the weapon proves itself not only as a weapon but as a companion in the story the group tells themselves as they move through danger. Its weight anchors those who step forward to hold the line; its broad sweep clears a path, letting allies breathe, step, and strike. The Perception aura—the blade’s quiet gift—drapes the scene in a cleaner truth: hidden foes reveal themselves, traps and ambushes shed their masks, and deception’s veil thins until the right choice becomes obvious. Wielders learn to time their breath with the blade’s subtle murmur, to read the moving room as a pageful of risks and opportunities. It’s a weapon that writes history with every swing, turning a brutal clash into a smaller, surer act of justice. Market days bring the sword from storied ruins to crowded lanes, and its presence travels with the rhythm of caravans and traders. I found it at the Saddlebag Exchange, tucked beneath a canopy where whispers and coin clinks mingle with the scent of wax and leather. The stall keeper laid the sword out with careful reverence, letting the light play along its edge, then measured its worth not only in gold but in the weight of a legacy carried on the buyer’s shoulders. The price—roughly eighty gold, give or take a tale told to loosen a purse-string—felt fair for a weapon that might turn the tide of a skirmish and, more quietly, turn a moment of fear into a choice. Some buyers walked away with the blade, some with only its history in their hands, but all left with a story that would outlive the coin. Whether in a chapel, a rain-slick road, or a heated melee, Cleric's Iron Greatsword of Perception keeps faith and steel aligned, as if truth itself wore iron gloves and walked beside you, guiding not only your sword but the path you choose when the truth demands a strike.