Cleric's Iron Dagger of Blood

Cleric's Iron Dagger of Blood rests on the altar’s cold stone, its blade a quiet iron-dusk that catches the light like a sliver of night trapped in glass. The edge shines with surgical precision, a whisper-thin line that seems to swallow candlelight rather than reflect it. The grip is wrapped in worn burgundy leather that’s puckered with age, the fibers stiff as prayers kept in a chapel drawer. A crossguard curls into a crescent, etched with sigils that glow faintly when the room grows warmer and the air smells of resin and oath. The pommel bears a tiny ruby-like bead, a heartbeat of red fire that seems to pulse with every breath the dagger takes from its surroundings. When you lift it, the metal answers with a frost of memory, as if countless hands—clerics, healers, oath-takers—had already pressed their faith into its weight. Lore clings to it as closely as any humidity to a temple wall. The clerics who tempered iron with living blood believed that steel could carry an oath as surely as a prayer carries sound. The dagger’s enchantment, they claimed, fed on the wearer’s intent: it drew a fraction of the wielder’s injury to fuel a healing bloom or to seal a wound with a band of red-tinged magic. It isn’t a weapon for conquest so much as a tool for restraint—an instrument to rebalance a battle’s brutal arithmetic, taking a toll so that life can endure a moment longer. Tales say it traveled from ruined shrines to crowded markets, carried by roving medics who refused to let suffering close its eyes without a last, careful act of mercy. In game terms, the blade functions as more than a blade. For a cleric who leans into blood-tinged resilience, its enchantment makes the wielder feel tethered to the living world rather than drawn into its ruin. On hit, the dagger’s magic breathes life back toward its bearer in a soft, almost intimate surge, and it can empower a healing pulse that ripples outward to nearby allies. The same rune-work that sustains the user’s vitality also lends a measured sting to foes, layering the battlefield with a careful balance of danger and relief. It’s the kind of weapon that invites a story, a choice between using power to save a single life or to shield a larger group for a fleeting moment longer. Those stories are not just spoken of in private. In bustling port towns and back-alley temples, the dagger surfaces in whispered negotiation, finding its way into the hands of collectors, healers, and scholars who chase the history of its oath-bound lineage. Modern merchants treat it as a relic with a pulse, a bridge between past vows and present needs. And that’s where Saddlebag Exchange steps into the narrative—an open market where such relics drift between hands like ash on a breeze. Listings for Cleric’s Iron Dagger of Blood appear in the catalog with varying conditions, from fair to pristine, each price tag a mirror of its faith and wear. One seller might claim strong runes and a clean grip; another warns of patina that deepens the blade’s character but dulls none of its usefulness. So the dagger remains, a relic and a tool, a story you can hold in your hand. It invites restraint, healing, and a quiet vow to remember the moment when a single blade refused to let the world forget its own fragility.