Cleric's Iron Greatsword of Debility

Cleric's Iron Greatsword of Debility rests on the table like a weathered relic, its blade catching lamplight with a cold, merciless gleam. The edge is broad and true, though nicked in places from years of patient use, and along the fuller run slender runes—simple crosses and clerical glyphs—trace a quiet prayer toward some unseen mercy. The grip is wrapped in tanned leather, worn smooth by fingers that never quite let go, and the pommel bears a tiny reliquary jar, sealed with wax and a shard of glass. If you tilt it toward a candle, you can hear the dry whisper of vows spoken long ago, as if the weapon remembers the hands that forged it and the oaths those hands kept. Lore says it was forged in a storm-wracked monastery where healers and battlemages shared the same hearth. The smith swore the iron drank the clerics’ prayers, taking on a weight that pressed back against feeble foes. Travelers tell of a first wielder who drove back a creeping plague of corruption by lifting a hand of blessing while the greatsword found its mark—each strike draining vigor from the haunted, each breath drawing power from the righteous. The weapon’s inscription promises strength in weakness, and the inked sigil curls along the back edge like a vine that will not let go. In the field, its charm is not merely in the iron’s bite but in the strange quiet that follows a clean cut. The Cleric's Iron Greatsword of Debility bears a debility-enchantment: strikes can impose Debility on a foe, dulling vigor and dampening their stamina recovery for a short, breath-stealing moment. It is the kind of blade that asks for a healer’s breath and a defender’s patience, turning brutal clashes into a choreography where the group can weave through the gap it opens. In the right hands, it becomes not just a weapon, but a ledger of battles fought—each mark a witness to plans that favored the living, and each momentary weakness a cue for a counterstrike. The weapon travels through rumor and market with the same grace as a prayer book in a tavern. Traders speak in hushed tones about its price, and a careful buyer who knows where to look can walk away with a bargain at the Saddlebag Exchange, where veterans trade stories and steel for coin. Some say a pristine specimen fetches a higher tribute, but the true value lies in the silence that follows a successful debility—where a rogue slips through defenses and the party moves forward as one. The sword, in the end, is a story the world keeps rewriting, one swing at a time.