The Cleric's Pearl Conch rests on a driftwood plinth, its shell a pale, pearlescent ivory that seems to drink light and spit it back in a soft, living glow. The outside bears hairline ridges like weathered harbor steps, while the inner nacre shimmers with a mother-of-pearl banquet of color—blue-green halos flicker at the edges, rose-gold wisps drift through the core. A glinting pearl sits in the hollow, moving with a patient tide, as if it keeps its own current inside. A slender strip of kelp twine secures an iron-capped disk etched with sigils, the work of a long-dead master of sea-borne healing. Legends say it was gifted to a wandering order that sailed between reef-lit temples, learning to still tempests by blowing softly and reciting prayers that carried across the water. Those notes coax the conch to awaken a warm, healing pulse, a whisper that travels through the caster’s hands and into the wards they lay upon the sick and the weary. The shell’s breath feels like a tide that answers your own, turning panic into rhythm and fear into a steady glow that others can lean on when the night threatens to pull them under. In actual field use, the conch becomes a living part of a healer’s kit. When slotted into a trinket, its presence nurtures the party’s vitality; it heightens restorative magic after skirmishes, helps prune away lingering conditions, and keeps the group oriented toward hope when the shore seems far away. Some wielders report that it harmonizes with water sigils, letting cleansing glows braid through a line of support that keeps comrades upright as the night takes hold. It is not a flashy instrument, but it sings at the edges of combat, a quiet chorus that steady hands and quick minds can learn to read. Markets along the coast whisper of its price, traded in the same breath as fresh catch and tarred rope. In the portable stalls of the Saddlebag Exchange, a Cleric's Pearl Conch can fetch a careful sum, changing hands between healers, treasure hunters, and the odd veteran who keeps a small reliquary of the sea. The rarer the conch, the longer the shimmer lingers in it, and the more a buyer can imagine its stories—the dawn prayers heard at a drowned shrine, the meal shared after a hard night of guarding the harbor. A piece may be wrapped with a pilgrim’s vow, tethered by the price of a few gold and a handful of rare salts, then carried away by someone who believes the conch will redeem a moment of fear with a line of light. On a damp, lantern-lit wharf, I watched a trader offer the conch to a quiet cleric who had saved a child from a collapsing jetty. The exchange felt less like commerce than a passing of weather and memory. The conch found a new home, and with it came a reminder that healing, like the tide, moves not from one place to another but from heart to heart, returning again whenever there is need.