Cleric's Iron Rifle of Blood

Cleric's Iron Rifle of Blood rests on a scarred table under a dim lantern, its stock carved from ironwood that has darkened to a coppery patina with age. The metal barrel is thick and straight, stamped with a series of red sigils that seem to thrum softly when the room grows quiet. A line of bone-white inlays runs along the grip and beneath the sights, catching the light like dried blood dried into lacquer. When you cradle it, the rifle sits heavy with a solemn weight, the checkered walnut pressing into your palm as if it remembers every vow spoken in its presence. The iron of the barrel is cool, almost chill, and a faint, perfumed tinge of resin and iron hangs in the air, as if the weapon carries the scent of a rain-soaked altar. Lore surrounds it like a cloak: once forged for a circle of clerics who walked the frontier towns where caravans broke and bandits lurked. They believed the weapon captured prayers the moment they left the lips of a healer and bound them into the metal. Every shot, they claimed, carried a fraction of the warding breath they used to bless the wounded. In practice, that breath translates into a rifle that disrupts curses and bleeds enemies a little faster than ordinary rifles, while also granting the wielder a temporary shield of resolve after a well-placed shot. It’s not just a tool of war; it’s a reliquary that remembers mercy and judgment in equal measure. In the heat of a siege it becomes part of a larger story. A healer-marked spear is kept at the flank, but this iron rifle holds the line when the wounded are sprawling behind improvised barriers. A single shot can peel away a line of danger, while a follow-up breath of prayer fires a subtle life-steal current that returns vigor to the bearer and stitcher of the wounded. The weapon’s aura hums in the hands of someone who knows when to pause and pray between shots, a discipline that turns a battlefield into something closer to a vigil than a rout. Market whispers around the Saddlebag Exchange tell of its price and provenance. A rumor says an old caravan master sold two such rifles, not by coin alone, but as a barter of stories—tales of near-misses and prayers answered—their value fluctuating with the faith the buyer can muster. In daylight, the Exchange tags swing with a price that sits in the high gold range, but when the lamps glow and a longer tale is told, traders barter down to a season’s hope. It’s not just metal and wood; it’s a ledger of mercy, written in iron and prayer. For those who hold it, the Cleric's Iron Rifle of Blood is more than a weapon. It is a companion on quiet roads and storming streets; a reminder that every bolt of iron can bear a blessing, and every act of aim can be a vow kept. Its legend grows with sunrise.