Carrion Glyphic Edge of Bloodlust

The Carrion Glyphic Edge of Bloodlust lies on an oak table, the blade curved like a crescent moon seen through smoke. Its steel wears a patina the color of dried blood, a dull gloss that drinks light and returns only a faint coppery glow. Inlaid along the spine are glyphs—thin runes of obsidian that pulse faintly when the air tastes of iron. The pommel is wrapped in worn leather, and small bone fragments along the guard rattle softly with every breath of wind. The edge catches a glimmer of flame and holds it, as if unwilling to let go of a story it has almost finished telling. Some say it was forged in the fevered forges of a necromantic order, tempered with carrion ash and a chant that binds hunger to steel. The lore goes that the blade drinks fear and thirst, and that every clean cut grants a heartbeat’s worth of power to its wielder. When the blood of a worthy foe marks the edge, the glyphs flare a coal-red and the weapon seems to sing in a voice only the brave can hear, urging its owner to press on rather than retreat. In practical terms, the Edge of Bloodlust is a weapon that wants to be used. In the heat of combat its obsidian sigils glow and the blade seems to pull the wielder forward, compounding the thrill of risk with the thrill of gain. Stacking Bloodlust isn’t a mere buff—it's a conversation with the weapon: deadly resolve built by every swing, a tempo that rewards bold, near-merciless tempo and punishes hesitation. For a veteran who walks the road between scavenged camps and bustling markets, the edge becomes a partner: it reddens in response to the cries of the field, it steadies the hand when retreat would be wiser, and it rewards the hunter who knows when to strike and when to endure. The world itself seems to move around it—the way caravans scatter ash from distant ruins, the way scholars debate whether the glyphs are captured voices of past owners, the way storytellers weave the blade into their narratives to remind listeners that power always carries a price. And because such relics travel, a blade like this earns its keep not only by the brutal comfort of its edge but through the stories it buys and sells in turn. Indeed, you hear rumors at Saddlebag Exchange—the trade ring where merchants swap shells, charms, and steel—that a Carrion Glyphic Edge of Bloodlust can fetch a fortune, often around two gold with room for haggling. The price ebbs and flows with how well the lore travels, how many witnesses swear to its thirst, and how hungry the buyer is for a blade that can turn a single massacre into a myth. If you’re listening, you can feel the blade’s breath on the neck as you walk away, carrying both a prize and a debt—an artifact that remembers every life it has touched and every life it might yet claim.