Cleric's Iron Spear of Smoldering

Cleric's Iron Spear of Smoldering sits in the palm like a relic that remembers every battlefield it ever touched: the iron head carved into a slim crescent of flame, hammered facets catching the light and throwing it back in dull, molten sparks. The shaft is a stout rod of ash-black wood, worn smooth by years of grip, bands of brass winding it at intervals where a hand would settle. A leather wrap circles the grip, frayed at the edges but still supple, scented with resin and faintly of rain after a blaze. At the butt, a small ember core is sealed under a glassy cap; when the spear’s temper rises with heat, the core glows a soft coppery red, like a coal kept alive in a sleeping hearth. Runes etched along the shaft shimmer with a pale orange glow, a promise of oath-bound purpose, a memory of a flame-worshipping order that once sanctified war and healing alike. The weapon isn’t merely hardware; it’s a thread in a larger tapestry. Lore keeps it in a pocket of memory among clerics who believed purification could come through fire as much as through mercy. According to faded scrolls, the Cleric’s Iron Spear was forged for the Flamewardens, a sect that tended sacred springs and rid the land of corruption by guiding heat into healing hands. In quiet monasteries and along caravan routes, the spear is said to hum when a righteous pledge is spoken, drawing warmth from the air to mend splintered resolve in those who bear it. Some tell of a rite where the spear’s ember is pressed into a patient’s palm to kindle a healing flame that cleanses grievous wounds and unsettled curses alike. It’s not simply an instrument of war or a tool of ceremony; it’s a hinge where mercy and furnace-fire meet, turning violence into a contested but hopeful restoration. In practical terms, the Cleric’s Iron Spear of Smoldering functions as a frontline beacon and a catalyst for group survivability. When wielded, it channels a fiery aura that buffs nearby allies with renewed vigor and a steadier heartbeat, while its striking motion torques the battlefield into a controlled blaze—creating a brief fire field that scorches lingering poison and feeds allied burning stacks. Its most telling moment, though, comes in the crucible of a mission: a healer leads the charge, guiding the spear’s heat to seal wounds and burn away the worst of infections, then, with a grateful breath, the party moves forward as the crest of heat becomes a shield of calm. Prices drift through the market like smoke, and travelers often compare notes as they haggle over want and need. I watched a seasoned trader at the Saddlebag Exchange eye the spear with reverence and a practiced eye for wear, noting the grip’s wear lines and the ember core’s glow. The price, he said, would reflect not only the metal and craftsmanship but the story it carries—how many times it stood between a child’s pale fear and a widening dawn, how many times it helped a healer turn despair into minutes of shelter. In the end, someone walked away with both a weapon and a history, the ember’s glow lingering in the night as a quiet vow: that flame can either blind or guard, and this spear is a steady flame—ready to guard again.