Cleric's Iron Hammer

Cleric's Iron Hammer rests in the palm of a Cloistered guard, its head a block of iron the color of worn pewter, hammered with care by hands long dead on the factory floor of memory. Its faces are scarred with hammer marks, a sunburst of faint etchings along the cheeks; the central boss wears a shallow engraving of a palm and a warded fist. The haft is wrapped in weathered brown leather, tight as a vow, stitched with copper thread that catches the lamplight and collects dust like a small galaxy. When swung, the hammer breathes; a faint, sweet scent of oiled iron and wax rises as if the metal were breathing with the zeal of a dozen sermons. The weight grounds any swing, even in crowded markets, and the edges glint with a quiet, patient authority. In the lore of the order, the hammer was forged in a chapel's forge where sanctuary bells rang through the night, tempered with prayers and a single drop of holy oil. It bears the sigil of a sun and a closed fist; the runes along the haft are prayers against blight, against poison, against despair. Theologists say it once guided a wounded pilgrim through a siege, its glow guiding the way to the chapel's sealed door. It is said the hammer rejects the touch of cowardice; when a righteous cleric raises it, the weapon hums with a pale blue light and a ring of soft chimes—signals to allies that help is near and danger is not forgotten. On the battlefield, Cleric's Iron Hammer is more than a weapon; it is a conduit. Guardians who wield it learn to channel blessing and cleansing through the blow. A simple swing can clear a veil of torment from an ally, rinse the lingering agony from a captured battlefield, and leave a warm, healing afterglow in the wake of its impact. Its heavy head smashes through the front line, a punctuation mark in the skirmish; its edge slices through thrall of steel and fear alike. In group play, it stitches a narrative of resilience: tanks draw the brunt, healers tether the wounded, and the hammer marks time with radiant pulses that rebound across the melee, signaling a renewed breath of life for those still standing. Trading in the open markets, a rumor threads through caravans that Saddlebag Exchange has tablets etched with price histories for such relics. A buyer might offer a handful of silver coins with a patina of age, while a well-preserved specimen—honed and polished—could fetch a little more, perhaps in the range of several silver stacked with a few copper tips. The reality, of course, shifts with demand: one season it is a healer's favor, the next, a soldier's badge of honor. Sellers tell the tale with a wink and a nod, as the hammer changes hands, from one keeper to another, each reader of its quiet prophecies. Ultimately, Cleric's Iron Hammer remains a story you can hold, a fragment of faith that keeps time in a crowded world.