Cleric's Iron Dagger rests on a scarred wooden table, its blade a slab of cold iron that seems to drink the candlelight. The surface is matte and pitted from years of service, the edge tempered to a whisper rather than a roar. A thin groove runs along the spine, catching specks of firelight as if a hidden river flows beneath. The grip is wrapped in pale, worn leather, frayed at the ends, with a simple iron ring at the pommel that can be tethered to a belt or cord. The crossguard curves softly like outspread wings, ready to shield the bearer’s knuckles from an errant guard. On the blade’s fuller, a sigil—intertwined glyphs of iron and mercy—bears a pale blue gleam when the light catches it just so. It is a weapon, yes, but more than that: a relic that carries the weight of vows and healing in its iron heart. Local chronicles say it was forged in a monastic foundry, cooled in holy water, then sealed with vows that outlived empires. The sigil is not mere ornament; it is said to hum when the bearer acts with mercy, guiding the blade toward healing rather than harm in the heat of battle. Some old accounts speak of a cleric who carried this dagger to the gates of a plague, steadying his breath as he whispered blessings between thrusts. The weapon’s history winds through chapel corridors and the city’s markets, where its reputation becomes a whisper in card shops and a rumor in taverns about where it came from and who last tended its runes. In skirmishes, the dagger is valued for close-quarters speed and its blessing-flavored finish. Wielded by a healer or sanctified fighter, it channels a brief ward and a touch of restoration with every strike, weaving protection into offense. Players describe its tempo as a careful cadence: a quick jab to pierce light armor, a healing aura procced by the sigil as you step back behind a shield, then a lull as the sigil glows and a cooldown lightens for allies. It suits quests that demand precision and balance—strike at the right moment, then stand in the breach with cleansing light. Some runes reward hit-on-hit with reduced cooldowns when enemies are afflicted by disease or condition, turning a simple jab into a small thread in the mission’s fabric. On the market floor, its price is a whispered thing—around a gold piece for the knotted heart and polished sigil, sometimes a touch more if the runes glow. Traders speak with a mix of reverence and practicality, as if the dagger’s tale justifies the cost. At Saddlebag Exchange, a dealer weighed the weapon with careful hands, leather purse jangling, the blue gleam like a compass. He spoke of provenance—monastery vaults and pilgrim vows—and offered the blade as a passing of faith, not merely loot. The exchange becomes a curbside chapter in the dagger’s ongoing narrative. To own it is to carry a fragment of oath-bound history into both street and sanctuary, a blade that remembers every vow and every moment of mercy and makes them accessible in the heat of the moment.