Cleric's Iron Pistol of Blood

Cleric's Iron Pistol of Blood sits on a velvet cloth, its barrel a cool, hammered iron that catches the torchlight in glints of dark steel. The grip is wrapped in cracked leather, stained the color of dried claret, and along the flank runes bloom in a soft ruby sheen whenever the weapon is touched by motive magic. A brass medallion on the butt bears the sigil of the old healing rite—an open hand pierced by a single, blooming thorn—whispering of a covenant between discipline and sacrifice. Its metal bears a patina of age; tiny nicks along the barrel speak of battlefield service and careful returns from caravans, as if the pistol has learned stories as much as it has learned to shoot. The scent is coppery, the weight perfectly balanced, and the first spark that slides off the mechanism feels almost like a breath drawn from a bottle of stored blood. Legends say it was forged in a sanctum where clerics bartered life for order, tempering steel with a drop of vitae to seal pacts with the unseen. When drawn, the pistol seems to carry a hush—the kind that follows a vow—before a crimson bolt arcs toward the target. In battle, its shots aren't just projectiles; they're coded with a discipline: each hit bleeds an ember of vitality to the wielder, a small drain from the living to feed the living. It pairs with loyalty to a party as much as with blood magic: a healer can channel restorative energy through it, letting a well-timed shot keep a frontline from breaking, while a striker benefits from the pistol's precise balance and the chance to bleed a foe into submission. On market days, I watch a line of travelers and merchants around the Saddlebag Exchange, a brass-posted tent where peddlers trade trinkets and weapons with the swagger of caravans. The Cleric's Iron Pistol of Blood sits among gleaming knives and ceremonial robes, its price negotiated with smoke and coffee and the soft clink of coins. A veteran trader tells a hopeful buyer that such relics—well cared for and properly tuned—fetch a few gold coins, depending on the runes and the shade of the crimson lacquer. The buyer twitches with hesitation and offers: a fair share of gold, a handful of vitae-charred gems, barrels worth of goodwill. The trader nods, but the gesture carries more weight than the money alone; it is a nod to the weapon's history, and to the orders that still haunt the market with rumors of hidden wards and guard towers. Back in the hands of a careful wielder, the pistol becomes more than a tool; it becomes a thread in a larger story: about sanctuaries that require blood to keep them standing, about the way ordinary days become a legend when a weapon is involved, and about how the world continues to revolve around markets and memories. The Cleric's Iron Pistol of Blood is not simply a gun; it's a reminder that in a place where life and faith cross, even a pistol can bear a covenant with the living and the dead, and in a caravan's wake the crackle of crimson light leaves behind a tale that keeps walking long after the seller has closed the stall.