Cleric's Iron Hammer of Corruption

Cleric's Iron Hammer of Corruption rests on the workshop table, its head a broad, brutal slab of iron scarred by countless campaigns. The surface wears a weathered patina that catches the lantern glow like a bed of coals, with runic incisions carved along the sides that pulse a faint, sickly green when the air thickens with malice. The handle is wrapped in alternating strips of cracked leather and copper-tinted wire, a signature grip that feels almost alive in the hand, as if it remembers every strike it has ever delivered. Around the haft, a chain of small sigils floats in shadow, swaying with a quiet, almost conciliatory clink. In a dim corner, the hammer’s shadow stretches long and narrow, like a thing that has waited a long time for a door to open. Locals say the weapon was forged at the edge of a broken order, hammered into existence by clerics who walked between the living and the corrupted, who believed that iron could both wound and purge. The Corruption in question is not merely a stain but a language—the whisper of a blight that travels from claw to shield, from oath to bone. When the hammer rings out a strike, it does more than dent armor; it seems to bend the narrative of the battlefield itself, bending even the stubborn will of a besieger toward a purging mercy. Sometimes the sigils flare as if the hammer remembers a vow spoken long ago, a vow to keep the weak from being swallowed by the creeping dark. In practice, the Cleric's Iron Hammer of Corruption feels like a living hinge between mercy and menace. Swing it, and a wave of tempered force carries outward, tagging enemies with a slow, creeping corruption that can be purged by a well-timed cleanse or a righteous strike from an ally. It rewards those who strike with purpose: the weapon’s aura strengthens warding lines and fortifies the hands of healers who stand close, turning calls for aid into concrete resilience. For groups marching into contested ground, its presence shapes tactics as surely as any map or compass. A protector with this hammer can soften the worst blows by weaving a veil of defense, while the same tool can break the stubborn hold of a crowd by infecting their ranks with a disciplined, predictable fear—one that can be purged or exploited, depending on the wielder’s will. The hammer’s lore threads through traders and scholars alike, the kind of provenance that invites both caution and curiosity. In markets where relics change hands as quickly as rumors, Saddlebag Exchange is a hive of whispers about condition, provenance, and potential. A broker might murmur that a pristine example fetched a handsome sum, while another remembers a repair that stained the balance of power in a single exchange. The price, of course, shifts with age and faith, with the buyer’s hunger and the seller’s memory, and it is not unusual to hear a cautious trainer remark that a weapon like this is worth more in the right hands than in the strongest vault. So the Cleric's Iron Hammer of Corruption continues to move through the world, carried by hands that know both mercy and ruin. It sits at the crossroads of faith and force, a relic that can anchor a line or break a confidence, a tangible reminder that in the struggle against shadow, iron and oath remain stubbornly connected, welded together by people who refuse to yield.