Cleric's Iron Hammer of Debility

Cleric's Iron Hammer of Debility rests on a scarred market cloth, its head a brutal rectangle of iron, worn smooth by years of service. The faces bear blunt ceremonial notches; a dull patina clings to every edge, as if the hammer slept in a priest's shrine for a century. The haft is wrapped in cracked black leather over a core of ashwood, the grip tightened with a brass collar and a small sigil of healing etched in copper along the length. At the butt, a ring holds a pendant: two hands cupping a star, a relic of the clerical order that tempered it. When the hammer is lifted, one senses the weight of prayers; the balance feels like a conversation between iron and mercy. Legends say it was forged by the Clerics of the White Ward, tempered in a kiln fed by devotion and cooled in the tears of a healer who saved a village from a plague. In the field, the Debility it carries is spoken of as a patient ripple, not a shout: a swing that unsettles the rhythm of a foe, slows their blows, and gnaws at their will to fight. Players who run with support and crowd-control builds learn to time a blow with a healer's doled blessing and a guardian's shield, turning abrupt chaos into a controlled sequence. The hammer's lore ties it to sanctified battle—not simply an instrument of harm, but a conduit for mercy that demands restraint. The market breathes only in a town like this, and Saddlebag Exchange has a stall that glints with oiled leather and the half-murmured gossip of caravans. A weathered clerk holds the hammer up by its leather-wrapped haft, passing it from palm to palm as if to listen for a heartbeat. The price—worded in a dozen languages of trade—hovers around eight gold in calm times, shifts down when market winds favor the cautious buyer, and can rise when a plague tale feeds demand. Traders trade not just coin but stories, sometimes trading a moonstone or a bundle of rare sigils for the chance to escort this relic to a distant temple. Old craftsmen claim the hammer's temper sang when first struck, a rumor that lends weight to any negotiation. The sight of its sigils glowing faintly in candlelight makes even seasoned buyers pause, wondering who its next wielder might be and what debt of mercy they will bear. As dusk settles over the market, the cleric's iron hammer of Debility remains a hinge between memory and momentary power. It waits, patient as a prayer, for the next stumble in a battle’s tide to reveal its true purpose: to debilitate enough to heal a world that never seems to be fully safe. To some, the hammer is a burden—every swing a reminder of the lives saved and the lives lost. To others, it is a beacon, a measured blade of mercy that grants a fighting chance when chaos looms. The instrument carries more than heft; it carries a vow, threaded through runes and ritual, waiting for the right moment to bend weakness toward courage.