Cleric's Stormcaller Scepter gleams with storm-blue veins set in pale, weathered silver, its head a crown of spiraling runes that hum with a quiet static. The grip feels cool and tactile in the hand, wrapped in soft, sun-kissed leather that has seen countless campaigns, with copper wire braided through the weave to conduct every spark that flares at a prayer’s cue. A pale aquamarine gem nests at the very tip, a frost-shy glow rippling within it, and when clouds gather, it seems to pulse in time with the weather’s breath. The runes along the shaft glow faintly, like fissures of light under ice, a visible tether between weapon and weather, as if wind itself has learned to read this scepter’s intent. Lore insists it was forged by a lineage of storm-chasing clerics, the Stormwardens who believed that healing could ride the crack of thunder as surely as it could ride a whispered blessing. They tempered the metal in rain-soaked fires and etched sigils that once guided caravans through blinding squalls. Some say the scepter remembers the storms it met—how a raging squall bowed to a single vow, how a drought’s edge softened when a healing cry rose above the roar. It is said the Cleric’s Stormcaller does not merely respond to its bearer’s commands; it learns the heart of the storm and makes it a partner in the rite of protection. In practice, the scepter is a living conduit of balance. In the field, it channels volatile currents into controlled bolts, sending jagged streams of lightning outward to ripple across enemies, while a warmly tempered aura heals or shields allies caught within its arcane weather. Its elegance lies in dual purpose: it can strike with the storm’s bite and cradle a unit beneath a calm, electric lullaby when danger presses in. The scepter’s winds obey a healer’s intent as surely as a battalion follows a seasoned captain’s call, weaving offensive crackling into defensive wards, so that every strike from the scepter carries a thread of mercy as well as might. It is as much a story-teller as a weapon, turning skirmishes into chapters of shared endurance. And the world keeps its own currency for such tales. I learned this not from a catalog, but from the chatter that drifts through the market streets after rain—voices weaving through awnings and puddles, trading rumors with the same care they trade wares. Saddlebag Exchange, they call it, a shaded yard where caravans and couriers set down their burdens and compare keepsakes. A well-preserved Cleric's Stormcaller Scepter circulates there with a price as mercurial as spring showers: high when the storm is fierce, more modest in the lull, and always subject to a hunter’s final bargain. The trade of legends is a living thing, and the scepter’s value is measured not only in gold but in the stories it can command: the bravest rescues, the village saved from a ruinous hail, the moment when a healer’s hand steadies a wind-torn crowd. So the Cleric's Stormcaller Scepter remains, not simply as a weapon or a relic, but as a current in the world’s weather—a beacon and a burden, a companion in a storm-tossed journey, ready to turn chaos into a vow kept.