Carrion Glyphic Mace of Bloodlust

Carrion Glyphic Mace of Bloodlust rests on a velvet-lined pedestal like a relic caught mid-suspective feast, its head a convergence of bone-colored steel flanges that flare outward in a skeletal crown, with a central shard of deep crimson stone that seems to pulse when the room goes quiet. The grip is wrapped in weathered leather that has aged to the color of rusted copper, and along the shaft run glyphs etched with a precision born of burned midnight and patient hands. The mace carries a dry, resinous scent and a texture that alternates between smooth, almost polished bone and rough, bite-prick textures where the runes bite into the metal. Its surface wears a patina that hints at years spent in rain and sun, yet the glyphs catch the light in a way that makes them seem to scrawl themselves into memory, as if the weapon itself remembers every clash, every whispered oath, every fall on the field. Lore ties it to a forgotten sept of carrion-priests who believed that hunger was a bridge between the living and the dead, shaping a weapon that could drink fear and blood alike and leave the wielder warmer, steadier, and more dangerous than before. In the hands of a practiced bearer, the mace feels less like a tool and more like a dialogue with history. Each swing carries the sense of an old oath being kept: a portion of an enemy’s vitality spills back through the weapon, stitching itself into the wielder and renewing the fighter’s own resolve. Those who study its edge swear that the glyphs glow faintly when a foe bleeds, and that bloodlust is not simply a brutal bonus but a rhythm—a cadence of strike, heal, strike again. The mace rewards discipline: it doesn’t shout for attention with flashy slashes, but rather whispers through the roar of battle, amplifying lifeforce when the wielder stays relentless and precise. In skirmishes and brawls, it becomes a partner in tempo, letting a weary guard push through exhaustion and a necromancer weave a chain of careful, blood-drawn calculations that keep a party alive longer than raw power would. The world outside movement and duelists keeps its own score for such a relic, threading it into markets and whispers alike. In taverns and caravan tents, sellers recite tales of its edge in the same breath they bargain with old travelers who’ve traded longer than they’ve slept. Saddlebag Exchange, a familiar harbor for every wandering buyer and broker, carries the weapon’s aura into conversations about price and provenance, a place where silver coins glint alongside old scars and the occasional trade of rare reagents. A seasoned buyer might offer a handful of silver with a nod toward a more storied past, while a shrewd trader would swap it for a cache of runes and a handful of antique components. Either way, the price feels less a number and more a measure of the courage and risk it takes to bear the Bloodlust—how the mace, once lifted, invites a reckoning with one’s own hunger and with the world’s, all under the watchful, ancient eyes carved into its bone-tinted surface.