Cleric's Iron Spear

Cleric's Iron Spear rests on the oaken table, its iron head dark as a storm-washed cliff and tempered to a quiet, stubborn edge that catches candlelight with a patient glow. The shaft is wrapped in weathered leather, each strip bearing the memory of long campaigns and church corridors. Runic sigils coil along the length, faintly blue when the torchlight catches them, a sunburst motif curling toward the butt. A small brass ferrule anchors the tip to the grip, and the grip itself is wound with scarred cord that smells of resin and rain. It feels cold to the touch until it’s held, then it hums with a patient warmth, as if it remembers the hands that kept it upright through siege and prayer. Its lore is not merely about metal and design but about the path it traveled. Forged by the Sisterhood of the Dawnward, not as a blade alone but as a conduit for mercy, the spear was carried by healers who tended the wounded where banners shivered and tents flapped in the wind. Those who bore it claim the tip never dulls in heat or fear, because the prayers etched into the shaft fuse with the iron, guiding mercy to the wounded. A whispered chronicle says the maker bound a drop of holy water within the grip, letting the wielder’s touch calm trembling hands and steady hearts. On ruined banners and in quiet chapels the weapon is known as a symbol: even iron can learn to listen to a healer’s voice. In the field, the Cleric’s Iron Spear moves beyond ornament and omen into practical steadiness. It is favored by support builds for the durable reach it lends to blessing and healing rituals, a constant companion that channels light and life in the heat of skirmishes. The spear’s aura seems to ripple outward, offering a protective shimmer to nearby allies, widening the radius where mercy can be breathed into a wounded line. Its runes sharpen focus, helping a party coordinate retreats, cleansing lingering curses, and laying down a temporary barrier that buys precious moments. Stand in a tight cluster, and the weapon’s quiet power feels almost tangible—like a lantern you can clutch as you walk a treacherous hallway in the dark. The tale travels with every trek into market lanes and ruined outposts, where the world’s needs press close. It’s not only a relic but a tool in a living drama, a piece of armor for the conscience as much as the body. When rumors swirl of a supply train ambush or a siege that will bend a town’s resolve, the spear is there, a steady hand at the helm, guiding mercy through the noise of war. If you find yourself wandering through the winding rows of the city’s harbor district, you’ll notice the Saddlebag Exchange sign, a weathered crescent that glints with promise. There, a seasoned trader once laid eyes on this very spear and spoke of provenance, its worth measured not only in gold but in stories. The price tag hovered around three gold with a handful of silver for a pristine specimen, though a careful haggle—driven by provenance, enchantments, and the buyer’s own story—could soften the sum. A skirt of coin, a whisper of history, and suddenly the Cleric’s Iron Spear has a home again, ready to walk the next leg of a long, quiet journey through the world’s turning loyalties and healing hands.