Cleric's Iron Spear

Cleric's Iron Spear gleams in the late sun, a blade of dull, stubborn iron that seems to hold its breath as if waiting for a prayer. The spearhead is long and spare, it tapers to a needle-like point that looks as if it would pierce doubt as easily as armor. The iron bears a subtle grain, like river-stones worn smooth by persistent rain, and the surface carries a soft frost of patina that hints at ages of use. The haft is wrapped in pale, weather-worn leather, the bindings darkening where hands have pressed and bled into the corded grip. A pewter collar seals the head to the shaft, and along its spine run runic sigils—the script of healers, folded in prayers to elusive powers. The scent of wax and resin clings to the wood, and the entire weapon feels heavier with memory than with metal, as if it has carried more wounded souls than it has ever carried steel. On the practice yard near the ruined chapel, the spear speaks in its own language. It is not simply a weapon; it is a conduit. Its reach lets a wielder step between line and blade, keeping allies from being swallowed by the sudden rush of steel and shadow. The sigils glow faintly when the wielder channels a prayer, and a line of pale warmth travels outward to soothe torn sinew and steady a shivering breath. The spear’s momentum is tempered by ritual—deliver a strike, then lean into a healing exhortation, and the blade seems to hum with the chorus of care. Those who fight with it learn to balance offense with protection, to pierce a foe’s defenses while stitching a rallying cry into the air for comrades behind the frontline. In skirmishes across smear-mottled fields, the Cleric’s Iron Spear becomes a symbol as much as a tool: a disciplined blend of guard and gesture, offense and mercy, a companion that reminds its bearer that healing can still arrive on the tip of a spear. Market winds do not forget such a thing, and neither do the road-tired merchants who trade in its echoes. I wandered into the Saddlebag Exchange, a corridor of awnings and hand-inked price tags where barter is a language as fluent as the spoken one. A dealer there, cloak-slung and quick-eyed, told me the Cleric’s Iron Spear holds its value because of its story as much as its steel. A pristine piece might command the better part of a small fortune, he said, careful to stage his words so the talk never climbs too high, yet never dips too low either. In the current market, he added, a well-kept spear with faintly glowing sigils could sit around the mid-range—perhaps thirty to forty gold—while those who can quote a blessing on the steel might see a premium. The price, he explained, shifts with the tides of campaigns, the arrivals of healers from distant camps, and the whispers of collectors who crave a weapon that has carried prayer as far as it has carried blows. It’s not merely metal for sale here; it’s a reliquary you can swing. That is how the Cleric’s Iron Spear survives in the world: not as a relic set behind glass, but as a living tool that travels with the wounded and the weary, a blade that remembers every prayer whispered into its seam.