Cleric's Iron Rifle of Blood

Cleric's Iron Rifle of Blood lies on the scarred oak table, its barrel a cool, matte iron that seems to drink the lamplight. The stock is carved from ash, dark with a subtle curl of grain, and lacquered in a deep burgundy that hints at dried wine and old vows. A silver inlay traces the length of the receiver, a winding thread of runes that glow faintly when the weapon hums with stored power. The muzzle wears a ring of brass studs, each stud hammered to resemble a tiny drop of blood caught in metal, and the name is etched on a copper plate along the grip: Cleric's Iron Rifle of Blood. The texture is smooth in places, rough in others, a patina of smoke clinging to its surface as if the rifle had weathered more than one cellar trial and fledgling battle. Lore ties it to forgotten clerics who tended body and spirit, the Order of Crimson Vellum, who believed blood—taken and given—bound life itself. They forged iron not only to pierce armor but to puncture fear, to convert a wound into a breath for the bearer. When the rifle is fired, the energy feels like a whispered oath rattling down the barrel; the shot leaves a crimson arc and a faint thrum of wards snapping back into place around the shooter, as if the weapon drank from a shared reserve of life and returned it to the living who need it most. In actual play, the Cleric's Iron Rifle of Blood has become a symbol on the field—the choice of healers who still want range, the ally who stands near the frontline but keeps eyes on the wounded. Its rounds, imbued with a touch of blood magic, can pierce hardened defenses and reset the tempo of a skirmish. Times of siege or canyon ambush show its strength: the weapon’s shots provide a measured pressure that keeps a retreat from turning into rout, offering a moment of calm when every second counts. Players speak of lining up shots to weave healing pulses with bleeding debuffs, of drawing attention away from healers as they chant, and of the rifle becoming part of a theater—the way light glints off the runes, the way a single shot redraws the map of a fight. Market tales sit in the same breath as battle tales. A veteran trader in Divinity’s Reach, often found at Saddlebag Exchange, once told me the rifle’s value is not measured in gold alone but in stories—how many times its bullet found a target after a healer secured the space to breathe. He’d haggle softly, weighing the copper plate’s weight, the lacquer’s condition, and the aura that clings to the metal. The price, he hinted, shifts with the tide of the markets, sometimes a tempered sum of coins, sometimes a trade for barter—leathers, a signed map, a favor owed—always framed by the rifle’s potential to rewrite the next skirmish. Back on the bench, the rifle seems to breathing. It waits for a commander who understands its history and for a player who can see the battlefield as a chapter of a larger tale—the Cleric's Iron Rifle of Blood not just a weapon, but a keeper of stories waiting for new ink.