Cleric's Iron Hammer of Peril

Cleric's Iron Hammer of Peril sits on the workbench, its head a bruised slab of iron that bears the patina of years and storms. The surface is pocked like old armor scared by rain, and a thin, almost reluctant gleam threads through the hammer’s face where sigils have been ground into the metal. Runes curl along the cheeks in a script that seems to shift when you’re not looking directly at them, a whisper of warding and warning. The grip is wrapped in worn leather, the kind that fits a gloved hand like a quiet promise, and the butt cap bears a small emblem—a crossed staff and sword—that marks its oath to guard the wearer against the peril it once contained. Legend keeps its own rhythm with the hammer: forged in a cleric’s fevered vigil, tempered under a storm, and sealed with a vow to lock away the fiercest hazards so the innocent can pass unscathed. In the stories that drift through villages and markets, the hammer’s tale travels as readily as its owner’s bootprints. They say the cleric who tempered it bound not just metal but a creed—when peril sought to bloom, the weapon pressed into the cleric’s palm and the world exhaled a little, as if a door had been closed on a dangerous room. The sigils glow faintly when danger draws near, not with the blinding certainty of a dawn, but with a patient, almost merciful light. To the healer who wields it, the hammer becomes more than a weapon; it is a conduit for courage, a way to funnel steady hands and steady hearts into the fray. When the hammer lands in the midst of battle, the air tightens with a quiet weight, as if the world itself remembered the oath stitched into the haft. Peril may return, but for a moment, the fear is checked, the line of assault reined in, and a guarded hope rises with the steam from a well-brewed tea after a hard day. When it comes to the dance of the battlefield, the Cleric's Iron Hammer of Peril is a tool for more than raw strength. Fighters swing for impact, certainly, but healers and guardians find their rhythm with it, guiding vitality toward allies and threading protective auras through the air like a halo. Its runes pulse with a patient warmth, cleansing stubborn afflictions and shielding the vulnerable as rounds of skirmish hysteria ripple past. In the right hands, its impact aligns with strikes that stun, stabilize, and soothe, turning a sharp blow into a turning point for a stalled engagement. It is the kind of artifact that makes a battlefield feel storied—where every swing is a sentence, and every recovery a paragraph in a larger, unwritten saga. The market hums with such tales, and Saddlebag Exchange keeps its ledger with the care of someone who has weighed many fates. A clerk flips through a ledger, murmuring numbers as if the figures themselves have weathered storms: mid-condition hammers find buyers at a comfortable few silver, while pristine, soul-bound examples fetch a gold or more. The price isn’t merely coin; it’s a signal about trust and memory—the willingness of a buyer to invest in a veteran’s creed, a seller’s hope, and the shared belief that peril, once contained, can be held at bay for just a little longer. In the end, the Cleric's Iron Hammer of Peril remains less a tool than a traveling companion—reliable, heavy, and forever ready to reshape a moment of fear into a dawn.