Carrion Glyphic Rifle of Bloodlust

Carrion Glyphic Rifle of Bloodlust rests on a velvet cloth, its barrel a charcoal-black tube etched with crooked glyphs that glow a faint crimson when moonlight spills across them. The stock is carved from storm-salvaged ash and pale bone, lacquered to a glassy sheen that catches light like a blade just before a strike. A leather strap, frayed at the ends, loops from the fore-end, as if the weapon itself is tethered to a living memory. Along the receiver, sigils twist in a slow, patient script, shifting with the angle of the eye as though the rifle keeps a tally of every life it touches. Lore whispers the glyphs were bound by a circle of sanguine binders who stitched war-magic into cold steel, marrying hunter’s precision with a revenant’s hunger; the name Bloodlust is both promise and warning, a pledge that every shot will drink from a stolen breath. In the grip of combat, the rifle feels almost alive. The trigger responds with a measured snap, the barrel humming with a hungry warmth as it settles into a rhythm. Its fame rests not merely on raw damage but on lifeforce transference: a portion of the damage dealt against bleeding or weakened foes returns as vitality to the shooter, sustaining endurance in extended fights. The rounds themselves glint with a pale, sigil-etched sheen, carrying a trace of carrion-resin that carries the scent of iron and rain. Practiced hands learn to time shots to the moment a foe’s guard dips, to bleed the target and trigger the weapon’s hunger at the precise beat of battle. It favors discipline over brute speed—patients who weave through skirmishes with deliberate, conserve-and-release timing find the Bloodlust at its most devastating. Carrying this rifle into a larger story feels almost like stepping into a chapter that has always existed in the margins. In field reports and tavern whispers, it has become a test of nerve for squads who live by the edge of risk and reward. Some crews tell of a captain who never fired unless the shot would land with certainty, because each bullet is a small pact, a vow to give life back to the living by taking it from the dying. Those who chase its legend describe mid-range efficacy, respectable stopping power, and the uncanny ability to sustain a push when healing resources run thin. It thrives in builds that exploit bleeding, vulnerability, and the staggered tempo of a prolonged engagement, rewarding patience and forethought more than frenzy. Yet the rifle remains a temperamental instrument—reloads are deliberate, maintenance meticulous, and the glyphs glow brightest when the wielder is calm, focused, and hungry for consequence. Markets in this world never shy from a story, and the Saddlebag Exchange is no exception. A worn listing catches the eye, the Carrion Glyphic Rifle of Bloodlust described in careful script and priced with a whisper rather than a shout, as if the vendor fears summoning attention from rival buyers. The Exchange’s crowd mutters of rarity, of ascended materials traded for a piece that seems to breathe when it’s not in use, and of traders who swear the gun’s aura shifts with the moon. For some, it’s a tangible artifact; for others, a doorway to a larger saga—a tool that might turn the tide when the night grows long and the dead rise to remind the world of its fragile mercy.