Cleric's Iron Spear of Bloodlust

Cleric's Iron Spear of Bloodlust glows under the flicker of the midnight torch, its head a tempered shard of night-black iron that narrows to a brutal point, the edge catching light with a whispering gleam. The haft is wrapped in weathered leather, knotted with worn spirals, and along its length runs a rune-scarred band of red ochre that seems to throb when the air grows taut with omen. A small, dented reliquary bead hangs from the butt, catching the flame and casting a red halo on the stone floor. The surface bears micro-scratches from old rites; each nick tells a tale of pilgrim hands and kept oaths. This is not merely iron and wood, but memory pressed into alloy, a relic that hums with purpose when the night breathes heavy. In the old stories of clerical orders, the spear was forged in a furnace fed by ceremonial blood, tempered until the bite of metal tasted like a vow. When the faithful raised it, a hush fell over the square, as if the world remembered debts owed. Warriors claimed that strikes with Cleric's Iron Spear of Bloodlust drew not just sinew from the foe but a trickle of vitality, funneling it into the bearer like a lit fuse of resolve. In skirmishes against plague-shrouded specters or besieging hosts, Bloodlust would flare, granting a brief breath of vigor to allies and stealing cruelty from enemies’ hearts. On the field, it lends itself to a ritual rhythm: reach, parry, strike, and a measured cadence that feels almost ceremonial, as if every thrust were a verse in a longer liturgy. The Bloodlust infusion tastes of iron and red wine, stacking in a crimson ledger that rewards patience. Wielded by a vigilant healer-guard or a frontline cleric, the spear becomes a walking shrine—each wounded ally a sacrament, each enemy toppled a turning of the page in a holy chronicle. In practical terms, its lifedrain mechanics convert injuries into brief bursts of lifeforce, healing nearby allies or fueling a rallying shout that turns the tide of a skirmish. It is especially cruel to those who thrive in groups, because its aura seems to synchronize with the heartbeat of the squad and make every moment feel meaningful rather than merely tense. Nearby benches of the Saddlebag Exchange whispered of supply, demand, and history, traders swapping stories as readily as coins. A vendor swathed in scarlet cloth boasted that the Cleric's Iron Spear of Bloodlust had changed hands for eight gold, plus a handful of salvaged relics, a price that rose or falls with mood and rumor. The market breathes with the same cadence as the spear itself: a living thread that binds market iron to war-worn destinies. To own it is to carry a quiet oath, part tool, part scripture, and part reminder that battle is a ritual where blood can feed hope. In the hands of the right bearer, it becomes more than a weapon; it becomes a story continuing to unfold with every march and flame.