Cleric's Mithril Hammer gleams in the dim light of the roadside forge, its head a flawless, pale-ice slab of mithril that hints at storms held back and prayers kept safe inside. The metal bears a quiet, humming sheen, like frost that never quite melts, with edges ground to a forgiving sharpness and a weight that sits in the palm as if the hammer were listening to the caller’s heartbeat. The haft is wrapped in worn leather, deep green and slightly oil-darkened from years of honest toil, with a slender spine of etched runes along its length—merchants say they glow faintly when a nearby altar stirs with faith. A small reliquary, sealed with a polished cap, nestles near the butt, a tiny homage to those who tempered the weapon not only with forge heat but with mercy. Its lore is not a boast but a whisper that travels from market stall to chapel bench. The clerics who carried it spoke of balance: a weapon that could shatter stubborn stubbornness in battle while steadying a wavering ally with the same stroke. The hammer’s mithril head is said to carry a blessing against corruption, a sanctuary-sent surge that can cleanse a wound as deftly as it can crush a shield. Some stories tell of the hammer’s origin in a temple’s quiet workshop, where a founder’s oath was hammered into each edge and the haft was wrapped by hands that had tended both grave and garden. When the order’s medics moved between field camps and caravan routes, this hammer became a companion, a portable chapel in metal and faith. In actual play, its significance threads through the battlefield like a pulse. Those who favor a hybrid role—protective, supportive, yet capable of turning the tide with a decisive strike—gravitate toward the Cleric’s Mithril Hammer. A well-timed swing can interrupt a foe’s advance, crack a shieldwall, and open a moment for an ally’s heal to land with greater clarity. The enchantments implied by its temper—gentle healing energizing on contact, a soft bloom of invigoration after every parry—make it a symbol as much as a tool: a reminder that courage can be healed, that faith can be forged into momentum. It’s the sort of weapon that makes a veteran nod and a newcomer pause to listen to the rhythm of battle, as if the hammer itself were tapping out a cadence of mercy. Prices drift in the wake of such reverence, and in the crowded corridors of trade, a fairer-minded buyer can be guided by stories as much as by coin. I watched a weary trader in the Saddlebag Exchange, a courtyard salt-streaked with rain and rumor, bargain with a patient dealer who knew that some items carry more than metal and magic. The price hovered around a modest gold sum for a hammer in pristine condition, with a shade more for a piece that carried recent battlefield patina. They settled on a middle ground, a respectful handshake, and a final exchange that felt less like commerce than passing a lantern from one keeper to another. So the Cleric's Mithril Hammer remains more than a weapon. It is a thread in the fabric of the road—crisp in air, heavy in memory, and bright with the promise that a single, well-placed strike can heal a line of soldiers as surely as a flare of faith can coax a dawn from night.