Cleric's Iron Greatsword of Bloodlust

Cleric's Iron Greatsword of Bloodlust gleams, a broad blade cooled to a pewter sheen, its edge darkened with age and stories. The iron surface bears a hammered texture, a ledger of battles etched in micro-sparks that catch the sun long enough to feel like memory. A leather-wrapped grip sits on a spine of quilled bone, and the crossguard spirals into a sigil that weeps tiny drops of rust as wind shifts. The pommel holds a tarnished seal—a stylized eye—that hints at a covenant sealed long ago between hammer, blade, and whoever learned to listen to the blade's hunger. The lore around Cleric's Iron Greatsword of Bloodlust is not just decoration. It is said to have been forged in a temple kiln where prayers and iron fused under the watch of a scarred archivist. Writs from that era tell of a silent order that battled plague and despair, and that the blade drank the vitality of its foes to keep its wielders standing in the wound of a siege. In game terms, the weapon is a rare two-handed greatsword that channels a small reservoir of Bloodlust with each strike, granting a brief surge of lifesteal and a sharpened focus that makes the next blow more precise. In the hands of a trained paladin or a hardy revenant, the greatsword feels like a story being driven forward by willpower—the breath before the next gust. On the field, its presence shifts the rhythm of combat. A swing that would merely break armor now trembles with potential, and a brutal arc can weave compassion and ferocity into one motion. Players learn to time its blood-bloom proc with healing or temporary wards, letting the weapon’s aura smooth the jagged edges of a long fight. It is not merely a weapon; it is a chorus line in the theatre of war: a reminder that courage often requires a blade to drink with mercy, and mercy, in turn, must be sharpened by steel. The sword’s texture—cool, almost mineral—the way the runic inscriptions catch the light when it catches a foe, makes the wielder feel tethered to a larger story, a ritual that won a war the way a prayer can win a soul. In the marketplace that threads the city’s lanes, I watch the price shift like a tide. A dealer from the Saddlebag Exchange lays a line of silver on the polished board, smiling as if to say the blade has already earned a place in some traveler’s hands. They name a price that sits somewhere between two gold and five silver, a figure that invites negotiation and memory alike. A client with a quest-item trade slips coins into the stall’s wooden trough, and the blade seems to hum as if it approves of the trade. I walk away with the sense that this sword is less a possession than a vessel—carrying a shared history, proof that even iron can learn to hunger for purpose and share it with those who dare to wield it today.