Cleric's Iron Hammer of Leeching

The Cleric's Iron Hammer of Leeching rests on a cracked leather cushion, its head a block of iron that glints with a dull pewter sheen. Its face is studded with shallow, rune-wired grooves that catch the light and throw back faint halos when you swing. The haft is wrapped in worn linen, stained by years of use; along its spine run tiny engravings—prayer sigils and a single line of red enamel that hints at blood and blessing alike. The hammer feels heavy and honest in the hand, cool to the touch even after a long trek, as if it absorbed the sun’s heat and kept it for a patient, healing purpose. When it moves, it makes a satisfying thud, a sound you could map to a heartbeat—steady, relentless, a metronome for courage. Locals who trade on the edge of the city tell a story of its making in the damp forges beneath the monastery of Calm Dawn, where a smith once paused to listen to a healer’s breath and threaded life into iron. The Cleric’s oath is said to be etched within the grip, sealing a covenant between blade and benediction. A sliver of old ivory serves as a counterweight, a reminder that healing requires balance between strength and mercy. Some say the weapon never truly leaves a righteous room; it seems to feed on quiet resolve as much as it feeds its wielder, drawing a soft glow from beneath the metal whenever the bearer faces down a foe with stubborn courage. In the right hands, the hammer becomes a companion in long, dusty campaigns, a counterpoint to the roar of battle with a patient, almost holy cadence. In gameplay terms, its pulse is as practical as it is poetic. The hammer’s Leeching property is a lifeline on the front lines, siphoning a portion of a foe’s vitality with each clean strike and channeling that force back into the wielder. It rewards careful timing: a well-placed burst of hammer blows can sustain you through a rampaging skirmish, turning damage into renewal and ebbing the sting of a drawn-out fight. Pair that with the hammer’s naturally sturdy range and the cleric’s or guardian’s shielded tempo, and you have a weapon that doesn’t merely survive encounters—it choreographs them. The Leeching aura feel becomes a quiet companion in the heat of pressure, a reminder that healing and resilience can be built into the very rhythm of a clash. Market whispers drift through the cart lanes and into the tavern, where a rumor threads its way through the crowd: the Cleric’s Iron Hammer of Leeching found its way into the trade routes via Saddlebag Exchange, riding the currents of barter between caravans and waypoints. A battered price tag attaches to its leather strap, fluctuating with demand and the season’s luck, but today it drew a handful of gold from a willing buyer who imagined it as both shield and salve. It’s a purchase that feels almost ceremonial—less a mere tool of war than a vow renewed in steel. So it sits, quiet yet vigilant, in the hands of someone who understands that a hammer can heal as deftly as it harms. In the world it calls home, the weapon is more than iron and runes; it’s a narrative tether—of faith, of endurance, of a blade that bleeds life back into the land as surely as it drains the life from its foes.