Cleric's Iron Spear of Peril

Cleric's Iron Spear of Peril gleams with a cold, patient light, an artifact that seems to have learned endurance from centuries of service. The iron shaft bears hammer scars that map the smith's hand, each notch catching the light like a memory. The spearhead is a disciplined triangle, sharpened to a silver edge, etched with sigils that flicker with a faint ruby-tinted glow when dawn hits steel. The haft is wrapped in worn leather, patched where the grip has softened from long use, but still firm enough to anchor a pilgrim's grip through mud. A brass ferrule bears a stylized crescent, and a frayed crimson tassel dangles from the base, swaying with each step as if whispering tales of peril. When you lift it, the weight settles as a burden of responsibility rather than a mere weapon. Whispers say it was forged in chapel foundries of the old clerics who walked the border between sanctuaries and ruined towns. Named Peril for the missions they undertook to shield the weak, the spear carried more than weight—it carried vows. The sigils are ward-runic scripts designed to brighten in unholy energies, guiding the blade to strike true against corruption and glimmer when mercy is needed more than murder. Some scholars whisper that the spear was tempered in a plague ward, kissed by prayer, and that its edge remembers a village waking to rebuild after a siege. It has passed through guardians and pilgrims, gathering stories to test those who claim it as their own. On the field, the spear's weight and balance offer a measured swing that pierces armor the way a careful surgeon removes a splinter. It capitalizes on piercing damage, triggers defensive stances, and weaves healing prayers into every strike. Cleric's gear tends to carry support-forward properties, and this spear is no exception: increasing stamina for nearby allies, brightening sigils that grant a brief shield, or sharpening the next ally's blow. The aura glows brighter when danger rises, nudging a team toward cautious, coordinated strikes. In right hands, it becomes more than a weapon; it is a symbol that steadies frightened lines, a beacon summoning courage from the shadows. During travels, I found Saddlebag Exchange tucked behind a water-stained arch, where traders laid relics like weathered journal pages. A dealer with a weathered map of the southern basins named only Harun paused to study the spear, tapping the shaft with a gloved finger and muttering about memory before naming a price that would test a pilgrim's purse. The tag asked for around 12 silver; after a few paces of bargaining, the number settled near 9 or 10, a rhythm the market favors when trust is earned, and when a buyer brings not just coin but a story of how the weapon protected a village from frost. The exchange itself felt like a rite—hands over metal, old tales traded for a future path, and the spear finding a quiet corner in a chest that would be opened again by another traveler chasing peril and relief alike.