Cleric's Iron Mace of Bloodlust

Cleric's Iron Mace of Bloodlust hammers itself into memory the moment you lift it: a hulking head of burnished iron, scarred by the hammer blows of a hundred sieges, its surface braided with copper runes that drink the light like dried blood. The haft is wrapped in oil-dark leather, frayed at the ends, and the pommel houses a polished red crystal that throbs faintly with every heartbeat of the wielder. On the crown, an etched sigil—two wings shadowed by a dripping blade—speaks of a cult long divided by mercy and necessity. The whole thing feels ancient and inexorably alive, as if the iron remembers the promises sworn to it and the lives it has demanded in return. It is said to have been forged in the scarred forges beneath the monastery cliffs, blessed by an order that believed blood could be offered to protect the living, tempered by priests who learned to bleed themselves to keep oaths strong. The mace remembers both supplication and vengeance, and when it senses a righteous crisis, the sigil glows with a stern red light. Warriors who crave the weight of judgment and healers who temper their curses alike have felt its pull, as if the weapon were a quiet tutor reminding its wielder that mercy and force are siblings, not enemies. In quiet rooms where the lanterns gutter, stories are traded about the mace’s iron conscience—a relic that chooses its bearer as much as the bearer chooses it. In the rough arithmetic of battle, the mace carves its own line through a room full of teeth and fear. Its essence feeds on blood spilled in defense of the weak, translating raw ferocity into structured, purposeful power. Swing after swing, it grants a temporary surge—an edge of crimson speed, a hardening shield, and a renewal that seems almost a second breath for an ally who believed the day was done. The glow from the copper runes grows warmer when the fight tilts toward mercy—when clemency breaks the line of violence and the wielder stands as a bulwark rather than a blade. Clerics, paladins, and shield-bearers alike learn to read its rhythm: when to press for a final blow, when to cradle a wounded teammate, and when to call upon the mending pulse that follows a moment of mercy. The market tells its own part of the story, where traders barter in whispers and barter again under the glow of oil lamps. At Saddlebag Exchange, the whispers of antique traders and anxious mercenaries drift through narrow stalls, where relics like this mace exchange hands for stories as much as coin. The price is never fixed, shifting with testimony and fevered demand: rumors of a plague’s end, a village saved by a single swing, a cleric who walked away with a bruised pride and a mace that would never let them forget the cost of power. A wary buyer can imagine the mace’s weight behind their own determination, while a seller weighs the premium of a legend over a mere steel. So the Cleric’s Iron Mace of Bloodlust remains not just a tool but a compass. It binds a person to a history of oath and blood, a hinge between mercy and might, and a beacon for communities who must choose how to endure. In the end, its story is not just about what it does in a fight, but what it asks of the world when the dust settles and the lanterns burn low.