Cleric's Orichalcum Imbued Inscription rests in the palm of a gloved hand, a sun-bronze shard that seems to hum with quiet warmth. The slab is small enough to tuck into a pocket, yet its edges are beveled with care, catching lamplight in a way that makes the metal look almost alive. Its surface bears a pattern of fine hammer marks, like rain on armor, and at the center a delicate sigil—an open hand cradling a wisp of light—carved with patient precision. The engravings glow faintly, a pale gold that shifts as you tilt it, as if the inscription were listening to your heartbeat. When you turn it, you notice the back is plain, save for a single shallow groove that seems to pace your breathing, a reminder that this is more than a trinket: it is a tether between metal and meaning. The lore tucked into its design speaks of clerical orders who tempered gold with gratitude, blessing the substance so that it might hold not just value, but intent. Orichalcum’s warmth lends a resilience to the inscription, a sense that it will endure use and time—like a story that survives the retelling. In gameplay terms, the appeal is not vanity but utility stitched into a single, portable piece. The Cleric's Imbued Inscription is meant to be mounted on gear that already hums with a healer’s purpose—rings, amulets, perhaps a pendant that a devotee wears beneath robes—granting a disciplined, surgical boost to healing prowess and the steadiness of a caster’s hand. You can feel its influence when a bloom of light gathers over your target, when the next heal lands with a touch more certainty, or when a barrier shivers into place with a quiet, almost ceremonial gravity. It is designed for those who walk the line between mercy and endurance, for healers who tread into the fray with a steady breath and a plan. The inscription doesn’t shout; it whispers a measured boost, a reminder that the smallest artifact can shape the tide of a battle, especially when every waiting second counts. Worlds beyond the battlefield lend this object a longer memory. I’ve watched a caravan bring a handful of these inscribed pieces to a stall where clerics traded stories as much as supplies. The merchants spoke in careful, gloved tones about exact fit and the way the inscription’s glow would settle into a ring that might have otherwise felt ordinary, turning an ordinary ring into a quiet sanctuary for a healer’s craft. It’s the sort of relic that binds moments—an ache of a village healed after a plague, a floor of lanterns lit again, a priestess bowing over a grateful child—and the inscription becomes part of that larger narrative, a small, gleaming hinge on which fate turns. On the market benches of the city, Saddlebag Exchange is where the talk turns to numbers and dependability. I listened as a trader described a few specimens in the day’s stall, noting that condition and the faintness of the glow shifted the price. A well-kept piece might fetch several gold more than a worn one, but even the less pristine examples held value for the right buyer. The going price, spoken in hushed, respectful tones, tended to hover around a modest gold to mid-gold range, with rarer, particularly well-preserved inscriptions reaching higher. It’s a quiet, steady market, the sort that rewards patience and trust, exactly the kind of place where a cleric’s blessing sealed in gold might finally meet the hands that will carry it into another act of mercy.