Cleric's Soft Wood Scepter of Bloodlust

Cleric's Soft Wood Scepter of Bloodlust rests on weathered linen, its grain a whisper of cinnamon and rain. The shaft is pale wood, smooth as a whispered confession, with a subtle give. Runic filaments coil around the center, etched in crimson lacquer that seems to breathe as the room grows quiet. The head is carved from deeper timber, curved into a crescent that cradles a tiny resin orb glowing at dusk. A strip of worn leather, threaded with iron dust, binds the grip, and the scent of resin and iron lingers after release. Its lore is stitched into the pattern—clerics who heal with one hand and draw strength from the other, the Bloodlust not as a weapon but as a prayer tattooed into wood and will. Within the world, this scepter moves with patient rhythm, guiding rites that quiet the screams of wounded banners and turn roars into steady breaths. When the wielder channels its pulse, the wood seems to throb with life beyond the user, pooling vitality in healed silence. Practically, it is a support instrument—blessing allies with swift healing, sharpening recovery, and granting tempered fury to those at the brink. The Bloodlust whispers through practiced hands, nudging the user toward decisive strikes that drain harm from the afflicted to feed their own stamina. It is a conduit for mercy and a fuse for valor, a reminder that power in balance is a covenant as old as stone altars where it was blessed. Markets remember relics not by shine but by stories they carry. To the untrained eye, it is quiet; to those who stabilize a frontline, it threads a larger tapestry. In the dim glow between battles, veterans speak of the scepter as an old friend who saves healer and phalanx alike. The price drifts through Saddlebag Exchange corridors, where a careful buyer might barter a handful of gold for a chance to cradle its warmth and feel the vitae-tension hum beneath lacquer. Exchanges are rarely simple; bargaining grows into shared histories, and the clerk smiles, thinking the price less important than the trust in the trade. To wield it is to choose a path where mercy and ferocity share a single grip. For guilds or wanderers, the Cleric's Soft Wood Scepter of Bloodlust becomes a narrative hinge—an artifact that tilts a fight toward renewal while reminding everyone that every rescue carries a risk. In the end, it is the scepter’s texture that stays: soft wood yielding to pressure, the red glow steadying nerves, the old prayers carved into timber keeping faith alive even when night swallows the camp. It is less about conquest and more about the quiet calculus of healing under pressure, and it is that balance that binds the world together, one life-woven moment at a time. In every room where the scepter rests, a patient heartbeat returns, and the tale travels on, from caravan tents to ruined temples, until someone finally speaks of mercy as a weapon of faith itself. Let mercy guide onward.