Cleric's Iron Greatsword of Blood

Cleric's Iron Greatsword of Blood gleams under a flickering lantern, its blade a broad, tempered slab of iron that catches the flame like a blade of dusk turned to steel. The edge bears a stubborn, almost clinical keenness, and along the fuller runes wound in a crimson thread seem to throb faintly when the room grows quiet. The grip is wrapped in tired leather, scarred from long nights and longer marches, and a small crossguard arches forward as if offering a prayer to the battlefield itself. The entire weapon carries a weight that speaks of discipline and ritual—a tool forged for obligation more than for display. When you tilt it to the light, you see the iron’s surface peppered with tiny nicks, memories of close calls and blood-streaked vows, as if the blade itself keeps a diary in metal. Lore says the Cleric’s iron was hammered in a forge near a ruined chapel, where clerics once bound blood magic to oath, not to bloodlust. They claimed that iron, cold and merciful, could discipline even the most frenetic rune-sorcery, shaping it into a conduit for healing as much as for harm. The sword’s inscription—three sigils, each a symbol of steadfast mercy—glows faintly when a veil of life threads through the air. It’s said the weapon swallowed a portion of the first cleric’s breath and a portion of the last oath, binding the weapon to a creed of protection rather than conquest. The marketplace coin could never quite measure the weight of that heritage, but it’s impossible to ignore how it looks in a quiet corridor or on a battlefield’s edge, where the badge of service still clings to the steel like a damp afterglow. In terms of gameplay, the Cleric’s Iron Greatsword of Blood is not merely a showpiece. Its swings carve wide arcs that demand position and rhythm, sweeping away fear as much as foes. It channels the wielder’s vitality into healing energy, a portion of each strike returning life to allies who stand too near the edge of ruin. In tense moments, the blade’s aura brightens, feeding off nearby injuries to fuel a stronger burst of lifeforce—an effect that makes it a natural pivot for builds that bridge frontline pressure and recovery. It invites a kind of storytelling on the field: a healer-brawler who uses distance and endurance to push back against encroaching doom, then turns the momentum to save a comrade who can ill afford the next blade’s kiss. The sword’s life-stealing undertone also means it carries risk—the longer you stand in the breach, the more you become a vessel for the weapon’s own blood-bound oath. On the road between skirmish and market you hear whispers traded like coin: the blade’s value sits at a dual price, measured in both memory and metal. Saddlebag Exchange acts as the broker’s signpost, its stalls pocked with weathered maps and glimmering trinkets, and it’s where you glimpse the true cost of such a relic. They’ll show you the listing, a ledger of hand-forged worth, and perhaps a story about the last buyer who walked away with more than a weapon, a chance to keep someone else standing when the night grows long. In the end, the Cleric’s Iron Greatsword of Blood is less a tool than a promise—of vigilance, of mercy, and of the stubborn courage needed to stand when the light falters and the dark draws near.