Cleric's Iron Greatsword of Blood

Cleric's Iron Greatsword of Blood gleams under the guttering lantern, the blade broad and true, its surface a cold metallic gray with a rust-tinged edge that seems to drink the light. A fuller runs lengthwise, catching the firelight and revealing etched sigils—a chapel burning, a thorn of thorned vines, the crescent of a blood-soaked moon. The grip is wrapped in worn crimson leather, the metal guard shaped like a pair of praying hands clasped in silent benediction. At the pommel, a small iron reliquary houses a sliver of something darker than ore, something that hums faintly with the memory of old oaths. The blade's tang carries a trace of resin from ritual oils, a scent that sticks to the sense long after it's sheathed. But the real story begins not with the craft, but with the order that commissioned its forging. The Cleric's Iron Greatsword of Blood was hammered in a monastery-turned-armory at the edge of a northern abbey, where winter winds carry the whispers of vows and bargains. It belongs to those who walk the line between mercy and coercion, a weapon borne by order keepers who heal with one hand and strike with the other when the faith you guard becomes a threat to all. The blade bears not just iron and blood-red patina, but a lineage of rites: oil from stadium-lit vigils, a sigil pressed into the fuller, and a vow etched along the edge—that power given must be tempered by mercy, and mercy tempered by steel. In play it is less a showpiece and more a hinge of the frontline. When a cleric frames a staccato rhythm of strike and shield, the greatsword swings with patient momentum, its weight turning to leverage that punctures heavy armor and leaves the enemy staggered for follow-up healing or a breather for the team. It rewards careful timing: you can set up a healing blast after a sweeping arc, or pair a devotion-stoked strike with a cleansing burst that clears conditions as foes reel. For a squad pushing through siege lanes, the blade becomes a narrative beat—the moment when prayer meets practice, and the world feels a touch more ordered because a sword was there to cut through chaos. Even the market carries its own subplots. On a sun-warmed afternoon, the passing caravan curls into the Saddlebag Exchange, a row of canvas stalls where rumors exchange hands as freely as trade. A hawker with a ledger topples the sword’s tale onto the scale: eight gold coins is the going tag, yet trade winds might tug the price for a patient buyer—a tale omitted in a hurried barter but spoken softly when a preferred buyer pauses to listen. In a town where memory and metal mingle, Saddlebag Exchange becomes the custodian of desire, and the Cleric's Iron Greatsword of Blood moves from armory rack to pilgrim’s procession, from whispered legends to a blade that forgives and remembers. Thus the weapon endures: a relic of oath-bound mercy, kissed by blood and balanced by duty, waiting for the moment it must sever what shadows have bound. And somewhere, a scribe notes the date the blade learned mercy anew.