Cleric's Iron Dagger of Blood

Cleric's Iron Dagger of Blood gleams under lamp-light, its blade a wary ribbon of coppery iron etched with red veins that seem to pulse when a candle gutter's shadow falls across them. The crossguard is wrapped in aged leather stained the color of dried wine, and the grip, carved with a sigil of a weeping crescent moon, fits the hand with a historian’s familiarity. Along the blade’s spine run shallow runes, not merely decorative but speaking in a whisper about oaths sworn in chapel alcoves long ago. When you tilt it toward the light, the metal appears to breathe, as if it remembers a pact sealed with salt and prayer. This is not merely a blade; it is a relic of a clerical order that once walked the borderlands between sanctity and necessity, a dagger trusted to deliver mercy that sometimes arrives as an edge. In the world’s markets, it is a paradox of elegance and utility. The Cleric's Iron Dagger of Blood carries the scent of old catacombs and censers, of fasting nights and urgent prayers whispered to keep foes at bay. Its lore speaks of a rite in which a priest’s resolve was tempered by the blade’s hunger for truth, so that the wearer could siphon a fraction of life to mend a comrade’s wounds without breaking a vow. In practice, wielders report that a single strike can drain a portion of their foe’s vitality into the caster, a grim balance that makes the dagger both a weapon and a sacrament. For healers who tilt toward pragmatism, the blade offers a perilous but potent tool: bleed neighbors, gathered fragments of life, channel them back through a sigil on the palm, and push a dying ally toward dawn. The dagger’s presence shapes skirmishes in more ways than damage numbers suggest. A party guarding a caravan will lean on its rhythm—strike, heal, and retreat—knowing that the weapon’s shadowy hunger can turn the tide when the fight halts blood’s common flow. Crafters and scavengers alike have learned that its value lies as much in memory as metal; the sigil marks a pact with a cautious dawn, and every transfer of ownership carries a rumor that the blade remembers every handshake and oath broken in the field. It is why Auction Row’s word of mouth can outpace a posted price, and why buyers at Saddlebag Exchange trade coins, trinkets, and stories to obtain a share of its history. They speak of it as a negotiator’s blade: a reminder that mercy and consequence walk the same road. Some nights, when the markets quiet and a lantern gutter glints on the edge of a blade’s cut, a nurse-priest will press the dagger into a junior’s palm and recount the way the iron sings when a heart is mending. It is not merely steel; it is a letter from the past, written in blood and oath, a tool that keeps faith practical when faith alone would not be enough. In every purchase, a silent vow weighs heavy.