Cleric's Iron Hammer

Cleric's Iron Hammer rests on the workbench, heavy as a dawn bell, its head a block of iron dulled by weather and years. The edges are squared, the surface pocked with tiny pits from consecrated blows, and a seam of rust traces a quiet path along one flank. Carved into the sides are sigils: a line of mercy, a ring of protection, a spur of renewal, each rune catching the lamplight and throwing back a soft glow. The haft is wrapped in dark, oiled leather, worn smooth by patient hands; at the butt a copper seal shaped like a kneeling guardian anchors a chipped thread of red cord. When you heft it, you can feel history in the weight—old prayers pressed into the iron, a memory of hands that steadied the wavering and kept faith when the world grew loud with scream and steel. In the monastery markets, it was said to have been forged by a master smith who listened to prayers during every strike, cooled in holy water before the first blessing landed on its edge. The tale travels with the hammer, a rumor that becomes a promise: where it is present, a little mercy clings to the air, and wounded folks forget the sting of the day for a moment longer. In the world, Cleric's Iron Hammer is both tool and talisman, linking the living to the long line of healers who stood between danger and the fragile breath of those who needed a lift. When it finds a hand—particularly a guardian or healer who values warding over raw force—the hammer becomes a narrative engine. Swing by swing, it channels a quiet blaze of restoration, pulsing outward in a wave that mends not just flesh but resolve. Allies feel lighter; conditions nudge away; a shield blossoms where it lands. It is not a glass cannon, but a steady relay of hope, a call to stand firm when the line buckles and the charge of enemies gathers in the tailwind of your steadiness. On the cobbled lanes of Divinity's Reach, traders speak in a low, careful tone about price and probability. One stall—Saddlebag Exchange—hangs the Cleric's Iron Hammer from a peg and chalks a price in neat, small numbers: 1 gold 75 silver in calm mornings, rising to two gold when the sigils glow brighter after a fresh storm of raids. The price shifts with the rumor of new batches, with a local monk’s sigh, or with a rare crafting material found in a distant canyon. Buyers handle it reverently, as if the hammer's weight carried more than metal. Time will tell if the blade can cut fear from the world, but this hammer has already cut a path through memory, a symbol that healing is a choice people make together. It remains, heavy and hopeful, waiting for the next hands brave enough to lay their own prayers into its forge-born heart. Until then, the hammer lies patient in the light, a quiet witness to mercy in motion.