Cleric's Iron Hammer of Serpent Slaying rests on a sun-streaked table, the head broad and iron-dark, tempered to a quiet, almost velvet shine that seems to drink in light rather than reflect it. Its face bears the telltale drift of decades of use: a wide, flat hammering surface with shallow striations like frost etched into metal, every groove a reminder of a blow delivered just when it mattered most. A serpent is carved in relief around the head, scales picked out with a bone-white enamel that catches candle glow and makes the creature look as if it might rise and coil tighter with the next swing. The haft is a stout, weathered timber wrapped in tightly bound leather—dark, oily, and warm to the touch—with copper rivets marching along its spine and a small iron charm at the pommel that jingles faintly when the weapon is moved. The whole thing carries a scent of oil, wax, and old ritual resin, as if it has spent more nights on a shrine table than in a thief’s satchel. Lore threads through its sturdy body like a bright thread through coarse cloth. The Cleric’s Iron Hammer of Serpent Slaying is said to have been forged by a cleric order whose vow was to counter venom with mercy, to crush the uprising of venom-blooded cults before their poison could stain a village’s breath. The serpent motif is not mere decoration; it’s a reminder that serpents, wily and patient, require both restraint and force. In the hands of a guardian or healer-wielder, the hammer becomes a bridge between temple and battlefield—a tool to shield the weak while delivering a decisive, earth-shuddering strike that can break a foe’s armor and sever a venomous weave of magic that would otherwise fester in a camp or a ruin. In practice, the hammer’s presence changes the rhythm of a fight. Its blows land with a heavy, ringing resonance that clears a front line as easily as a gust clears fog. Its swing invites teammates to shift, to press, to heal, to rally. In the world where healers weave life into battle and front-line fighters hold the line, the Serpent Slaying hammer is a permission slip to move with greater tempo, to trade a moment of caution for a moment of thunder. Those who wield it speak of a certain clarity after a clash—how a single, well-timed hammer strike can disrupt a pack of venom-wreathed foes long enough for a healer’s breath to steady the group, or for a scout to slip behind line and snatch back a fallen ally. Market stories braid into its legend as well. I found the hammer adjacent to a stall at the Saddlebag Exchange, where old sigils and well-worn arms pass from one traveler to the next. The price tag glowed under oil lamps, a negotiation hinge between trepidation and desire: a fair high price for a relic of anti-venom justice, but with room to bargain for a few silver coins or a small trade-in of rare herbs. The seller spoke of other clerics and guardians who had traded tales with it—of how the weight of the hammer seemed to press a story into their bones, urging them to stand firm, to endure, to protect. And so the Cleric’s Iron Hammer of Serpent Slaying remains more than a weapon. It’s a relic that makes a world feel taller, a reminder that courage can be measured in length of swing as much as in length of oath.