Cleric's Iron Sword of Blood

Cleric's Iron Sword of Blood gleams with a coppery glow, a broad blade hammered from iron that catches lantern light like a drop of dried wine spilling across a dark altar. Its edge is sharp, the fuller a shallow groove that bears the patience of a blacksmith who has learned to listen to metal. The grip is wrapped in worn leather, scarred by travel and prayers, and the guard bears a sigil—an open palm cradling a single crimson teardrop—that marks the blade as belonging to the healing order. Along the spine, runic fingerprints are etched in a deliberate pattern, small enough to be missed by a hurried glance but now and then catching a stray ray of sun to pulse with a quiet, almost breathy red. When you lift it, the weight sits in your hand as if the weapon had been waiting for you for a long, long moment, until it recognizes a heart that will pour life into others rather than merely strike at foes. In the stories told around campfires and in the quiet rooms of monastery keeps, the sword is said to be tempered by the prayers of clerics who believed that healing could be forged from the heat of battle. They spoke of a covenant, a blade that drinks not just blood but the fear and pain that accompany it, transmuting that raw energy into a shield for the wounded and a beacon for the dazed. The weapon is less a tool of conquest than a conduit through which mercy travels—its iron forever touched by a red warmth that feels almost alive as it hums when a wounded ally is near. Some tell of a ritual where the blade’s glow grows brighter when a cleric channels life force through it, strengthening the light that heals rather than the flesh that fights. As far as the world’s marches are concerned, the sword’s usefulness feels woven into the fabric of strategy on the field. It is a frontline instrument that can carve space while keeping the wounded from sinking into despair. Its vitality-leaning edge makes it particularly treasured by those who walk the line between hammer and heartbeat: strike to keep pressure on a crowd, then turn the blade to coax vitality back into trembling fighters. Its presence shifts the rhythm of skirmishes, inviting a healer to step closer to danger and a guardian to step back, knowing the blade can lend energy to the weary, almost as if the weapon itself is a heartbeat joined to the party’s pulse. Prices in the bustling stalls of Saddlebag Exchange are never simple, but the sword’s allure is undeniable. A veteran seller, counting coins with a practiced eye, spoke of relics and reputations as he weighed the blade in his palms. He offered a fair, if not generous, trade: roughly six gold coins and a handful of silver, plus a braided cord of prayer beads said to have survived many rites. The exchange felt less like a sale and more like a passing of a secret between strangers—the blade finding a new keeper who would carry its oath forward into the next turning of the war-told world. Walking away, you sense the blade’s quiet promise: it will always push you toward healing in the heart of chaos, urging courage to be kind, and reminding you that power, even in iron, can be used to save rather than to crush. The Cleric's Iron Sword of Blood stays not just as a weapon, but as a story you carry into every battle, and a reminder that mercy can endure even in the fiercest hour.