Cleric's Iron Dagger of Agony gleams in the candlelight, a stubborn shard of steel that seems to remember every strike it has seen. The blade is a dull, stubborn iron, pocked with tiny craters where heat met tradition and faith, the edge bearing a whisper of a serrated memory that never fully fades. The handle is wrapped in weathered leather, scarred by years of grip and ritual, with a small iron ring at the base that once fastened to a chain worn by mendicants and wardens alike. Across the blade, faint sigils coil like wounded vines: one circle, one thorn, and a line of runes that glow only when the dagger drinks in fear or pain. It looks as if it could still listen to a whispered confession or catch a scream and cradle it against its iron skin. There’s a lore thread woven into its heft, a hint that the dagger was never merely a weapon but a conduit. In holier corridors and dim sanctums, the Cleric’s Iron Dagger of Agony was said to be a blade forged for binding torment to ward off greater corruption. Tales tell of a rite in which a healer-priest would press the edge to a patient’s chest—carefully, reverently—so that agony could be drawn into the steel rather than into the living. The dagger’s aura tastes of old prayers and second chances; its name, Agony, is less a taunt and more a grim promise that pain can be measured, redirected, and finally understood. In practice, the dagger has a stubborn usefulness on the battlefield and beyond. In the hands of a practitioner who channels agony as a resource, it becomes more than a cut: it breaks resistance and compels enemies to bleed their own battles into the world. Used with careful timing, it inflicts a persistent bane—layers of torment that stack as the blade drains vigor from foes, letting allies harvest hope from the very pain the dagger evokes. It’s the sort of tool that sings in a chorus of healers and frontline bruisers alike, turning sharp things into instruments of careful mercy. You don’t swing it to slay alone; you weave it into a larger choreography—a dance of penalties, heeded cautions, and the fragile arithmetic of life and death. Prices drift like distant bells in a market town, and here is where the world truly gives the dagger a pulse. I watched a merchant with a weathered ledger haggle with a caravaner beneath a sun-bleached awning, the shadows of the stalls sprawling over a dusty square. The talk turned from legends to ledgers, from stories of the dagger’s bite to the weight of its ownership. They settled on a measure of silver that felt right for the moment, and the words “Saddlebag Exchange” drifted into the air as if the market itself spoke: a place where rare items find new destinies, where fear and faith exchange hands as briskly as coins. The Cleric’s Iron Dagger of Agony remains, for me, a story you can hold. A relic that reminds you the world is sharp and tender at once, a blade that teaches restraint as deftly as it teaches pain. I tucked it away with care, letting its quiet weight press a single truth into my palm: every wound we carry has a precedent, and every blade, even an iron one, can be a vessel for mercy if guided with intent.