Apothecary's Mithril Spear

The Apothecary's Mithril Spear glints with a pale, mercurial sheen, its shaft a slender cylinder of mithril that hums faintly when you rub your thumb along it. The surface is cool and smooth, carved with fine, almost botanical engravings that shift in the light like leaves in a shaded grove. Along the grip, a wrap of leather is threaded with tiny bone beads and seal-lac, and the spearhead itself fans into a narrow, leaf-edged point, lacquered so that it never dulls in the fumes of alchemy. A string of glass vials runs down the length of the shaft, each sealed with a cork and colored with tinctures the apothecaries used to both heal and harm; when you move, a faint clinking sound—like rain on glass—accompanies the weapon’s presence. Lore says it was forged in the quiet hours between guild halls, when moonlight and mortar dust mixed in the forges, and that the spear carried the heart of a city’s oath: to heal the wounded while keeping the dead from rising again. In gameplay, this spear is not merely ornament. It flows into the world as a conduit for the apothecary’s craft: striking foes can scatter therapeutic vapors that cleanse wounds, while precise thrusts can puncture a target’s defenses and release a small cloud of restorative mist. Adventurers tell of long scouting runs where the spear’s steady rhythm kept line and supply intact, its blade a calm counterpoint to the chaos of a siege. It is as comfortable in a field camp as in the heat of a skirmish: the driver’s mind can apply a poultice, the archer’s eye can track a moving foe, and the spear remains a symbol that the right medicine, delivered with restraint, can turn the tide. The myth keeps pace with the practical, turning the weapon from mere tool to trusted companion—proof that in this world, even metal can carry memory, and memory can be weapons. On the market, the curious and the collectors talk shop in hushed tones, measuring the spear’s worth by its tinctures and its tales. You can hear the coin clink as bartering passes hands at Saddlebag Exchange, where a well-preserved example might fetch around 12 to 15 gold, depending on how many vials remain sealed and how bright the mithril still catches the light. The vendor’s sleeves are stained with herb-darkened lacquer, eyes bright with the thrill of a new discovery, and they’ll tell you the same thing: every buyer writes a new chapter for this spear, and every chapter leaves its own residue—of courage, of caution, and of care. Some buyers speak of its dual origin, forged in the same furnace that tempered the city’s healers’ resolve. They imagine a courier carrying the spear through plague-smudged streets, delivering antidotes in the same breath as warnings. If you listen closely, the mithril’s faint hum seems to answer with a name—the Apothecary—and the city replies, a chorus of gratitude for tools that mend skin and story, one measured swing at a time.