Cleric's Iron Rifle of Blood

Cleric's Iron Rifle of Blood gleams under the oil lamp, its barrel a cold, unyielding corridor of iron that seems to drink the glow rather than reflect it. The metal bears a weathered patina, not from age alone but from the stories etched into its surface—fine sigils of runes that burn a shy crimson when the light catches them just so. The stock is carved from ashwood, smooth as bone yet bearing the faint grain of a tree that once sheltered a thousand secrets; brass fittings glint along the receiver, and a wrap of cracked red leather spirals around the grip as if dyed by old rituals. A slender strap, patched with scarlet thread, dangles from a ring that looks more ceremonial than practical, suggesting this rifle has walked more halls than battlefields. It feels heavy in the hand, substantial enough to anchor a hunter’s breath, yet balanced enough to land a precise, whispered shot even in the moment’s chaos. Lore clings to it as stubbornly as the oil on the stock. The Cleric's Iron Rifle of Blood is said to be forged in the shadow of a long-forgotten shrine, around a vow whispered by a healer who learned to barter pain for protection. The sigils, when touched by the right light, flicker with a life of their own and seem to hum with a patient patience. They speak of a weapon that does not merely wound but binds the course of a fight to a higher duty: to end the suffering of the weak, to weaponize mercy in a world that forgets mercy can be taught at the barrel’s edge. In legend, each shot carries a fragment of that vow, channeling a river of crimson discipline into a target before it fades back into silence. In practice, the rifle serves as a conduit for a blood-touched playstyle. Its shots are deliberate, the kind that demand patience as much as courage, puncturing armor and scattering minor bleeds that echo through a fight. Players who lean on sustain and reach find the weapon’s temperament agreeable: a calm, methodical cadence that rewards careful aiming and a willingness to let a moment stretch before the next strike. The rifle’s “blood” aura—subtle, not flashy—feels like a pact you keep with every long-range engagement: a reminder that sacrifice, when tempered by purpose, can be a tool as precise as any mount or blade. Market whispers carry the weapon’s name through markets and camps alike, and the Saddlebag Exchange is where its price threads through the gossip and bartering of those who chase such relics. I heard a veteran trader name a price—roughly a gold and a half, give or take—tied to the rifle’s condition and its sigils’ glow, the sort of number that makes a buyer haggle with a smile and a mouthful of war-stories. Buyers and dreamers alike pause to weigh the vow against the value, to decide whether the weight of the leather, the glow in the brass, and the memory of a cleric’s oath are worth the coin. And so the Cleric's Iron Rifle of Blood continues its quiet, stubborn journey, a blade-blue thread in a tapestry of mercy and vengeance, ready to guide a careful hand toward a shot that can change a battle and perhaps a world.