Cleric's Iron Mace of Blood

Cleric's Iron Mace of Blood sits on the weathered oak table, its head a brutal disk of ferric iron that gleams with a damp, cherry-red patina, as if the blade itself is still damp with a secret sacrament. The surface is mated to a shank of iron that bears the scars of hurried smithing—hammer marks that catch the light like teeth in a jaw. The grip is wrapped in cracked leather, well-worn to a smooth patina by hands that have counted prayers and measured risk, and at the butt there’s a small iron loop threaded with a rusted chain, as if to remind its bearer that every swing pulls at the past. A sigil, etched with patient care, spirals along the shaft, faintly glowing when the instrument draws near cathedrals where blood and blessing collide. The whole thing carries a metallic scent—iron and old leather—mixed with something coppery that lingers long after you’ve set it down. In the stories the clerics whisper, this mace was forged in the heat of a long winter when blood rites were whispered to soothe the restless dead. It was never meant to dazzle with flash or flourish; its power arrived as a quiet, deliberate resonance, a balance of brutality and mercy. Those who listen closely say the weapon drinks of the wearer’s vitality, not by force alone but by a shared oath—a covenant that the strike will return a measure of life to the hands that deal the blow. It’s said to favor disciplined hands: the kind that measure each swing and know when to hold, when to press, and when to turn the edge of force toward healing. In play, its aura is not merely a stat line but a story beat—the mace’s blood-touched magic weaving into the rhythm of a fight, letting a warrior bleed away the danger while a cleric’s patience pours back into the field. It’s a weapon that asks for restraint as much as it offers might, a reminder that power, once blessed, must be steadied and stewarded. The cleric’s iron comes alive in the wider world not only when it lands a hit, but when it travels from hand to hand. In quiet corners of the city, traders speak of its price in clipped breaths, weighing the cost against debts, favors, and the ease of a perilous rescue. I watched a broker describe it to a prospective buyer at Saddlebag Exchange, where crates creak and voices carry across a crowded market square. The price isn’t just metal and ornament; it’s a tally of vows kept and battles endured. The seller spoke of rare ore, of a lineage of keepers who swore to guard the balance between harm and healing, and then he paused, letting the crowd feel the gravity of the moment. A handful of silver and a story or two more—that’s what it demanded, but a buyer who understood the mace’s oath would gladly meet the terms, knowing that somewhere between the clang of iron and the hush of prayer, the weapon would guide a righteous swing as much as it would carve a warning into the air. So the Cleric’s Iron Mace of Blood remains not merely a tool but a living artifact, a hinge where mercy and violence meet, where old wounds become cautions, and where a traveler’s tale quietly binds worlds together with every measured strike.