Cleric's Iron Spear of Hobbling

Cleric's Iron Spear of Hobbling rests on a weathered peg, its iron head dull as a winter moon, the surface scored with the deliberate rhythm of a blunt hammer. The shaft is wrapped in cracked leather that once wore the blues and greens of a healer’s banner, now dulled to ash by years of rain and sun. Along the length run thin sigils—twisted lines that seem to throb with a hidden heartbeat—and a small rune set into the butt-end, where a bone knob marks the spear’s last oath to restraint, not conquest. It is heavy enough to feel like a tether in your hands, yet balanced with an almost cruel precision that makes a single, clean arc a patient craftsman’s decision. In the dim workshop light, the iron gleams with a quiet promise: to slow a fast-moving danger, to pin a raid’s momentum, to turn a chase into a funeral march for your opponent’s momentum. Lore murmurs of a cleric who forged it not to end lives, but to end overreaching, to tame the frenzied pace of war itself. They spoke of a world where a booted foot could betray a village to a shield-wall or a vendetta, and so the spear bore a counterspell etched into its body—a hobbling enchantment that scrapes away the wind from a foe’s stride. It’s not a brutal blade, but a patient instrument, designed to invite restraint rather than rage. When the weapon finds its mark, the target’s gait falters, the legs misstep as if caught in quicksand, and the moment of hesitation stretches just long enough for comrades to close the gap, or for the wielder to slip back behind the cover of a shield or a boulder. It is a philosophy in steel—a reminder that restraint can save the many where vengeance would ruin them all. In practice, its value is not in the spear’s edge but in the tempo it creates. A healer can hinge a line of defense on that stumble, a frontline fighter can thread a break in the assault through the space it opens, and a skirmisher can stair-step a retreat into a calculated retreating advantage. The weapon asks you to read the battlefield like a map of breath and pace, to know when to strike and when to hold, to harness fear as a temporary archway through which your team can pass unscathed. In the right hands, it becomes a conductor’s baton for a chaotic orchestra—turning a charge into a measured sway, a rout into a strategic withdrawal. Pricing is a story of markets and memory. In a corridor of stalls and second-hand signs, the Saddlebag Exchange keeps a ledger that breathes with the cadence of demand, where rare tools roam like rumors until someone sponsors their return to use. Cleric’s Iron Spear of Hobbling is often tagged in the low-to-mid gold range, its value buoyed by scarcity, condition, and the reputation of its lineage. Negotiations there are a shared performance, with the broker’s eyes weighing steel, leather, and lore, and the buyer’s hands weighing history against necessity. A good trade, the merchants say, is one where the spear awakens a story in a new owner, so that the next chapter might be written with a patient step rather than a loud, reckless sprint.