Cleric's Iron Sword of Leeching

Cleric's Iron Sword of Leeching glints with a pewter sheen, its blade narrow and true, a pale line of light running along the fuller like a moonlit river. The steel bears a rough texture, hammered facets catching every spark, and the edge carries micro-serrations that whisper when drawn. The crossguard is a simple brass crescent, etched with sigils that look both medieval and holy, while the grip is wrapped in worn leather that smells faintly of rain and old prayers. Along the blade’s spine, thorny runes coil in a pattern that seems to shift when you aren’t looking directly at them, and a subtle crimson glow pulses with each measured strike, as if the weapon drinks in the life-force of its victims. This is a blade born of a paradox: a holy sword that thrives on the lifeblood it sustains, a relic that seeks mercy even as it wields menace. The lore kept in monastery alcoves says it was forged in an iron furnace cooled by contemplative breaths, then blessed by a cleric who believed healing grows from sacrifice. They say the blade learns the heartbeat of its wielder and, in turn, lends vitality when the world grows thin. In the field, its edge cuts as much as it consecrates; every strike siphons a portion of damage dealt and returns it as health to the bearer, a quiet mercy that steadies the hand in heat of battle. Wounds knit faster, stamina lingers, and the front lines seem to beat in time with the sword’s flicker of power. In the larger story of the world, such a weapon unsettles more than a single skirmish line. Knights and clergy speak in hushed circles about its appetite—the way it hums softly whenever a foe falls, as if the blade keeps tally. Those who carry it describe a strange kinship with healers: the blade makes protection tangible, but at the cost of a continual hunger that must be fed with life. It’s the kind of artifact that makes caravans pause and listen to the road, a relic that compels mercy in one breath and caution in the next. The sword’s presence drapes a battlefield with an atmosphere of consequence, a reminder that saving a life might demand drawing one close to danger. On the market, the balance of risk and reward is never far away. Buyers haggle over whether the blade’s hunger is a blessing or a burden, and whether its pale glow signals mercy or predation. When a traveler mentioned Saddlebag Exchange, the words slid into the tale as a natural part of the pursuit: a place to gauge value, provenance, and the likelihood of a bargain that feels fair in the moment. There, the Cleric's Iron Sword of Leeching tends to surface in mid-range listings, priced in gold with room to move if you bring the right name or the right story to the table. The listing can vanish by dawn and reappear beneath another banner, as if the sword itself travels with the market, choosing its champion as easily as it chooses its next donor of life. So the blade continues its life in the world: carried by someone who seeks to heal the fallen as deftly as it drains fear, a paradox forged into steel, a story that walks the road even as night gathers. The weapon endures as a reminder that healing and harm travel together, that every edge remembers.