Carrion Glyphic Brand of Bloodlust

Carrion Glyphic Brand of Bloodlust rests in the palm as a bone-white disk: rough-edged, about the size of a coin, etched with glyphs that glow a faint red whenever the air grows heavy with the scent of iron and rain. The texture is cooler than expected, like a bone cooled by night wind, with tiny pitted rivulets where the carving has bitten into the surface. When you tilt it just so, the markings catch the light and seem to pulse, as if the dead themselves were listening for commands. It carries a whisper of carrion lore—not simply a thing you wear, but a relic pulled from the margins where hunters and plague-wingers once walked together. The glyphs are said to be sigils of the old carrion priests, burned into bone and resin, meant to bind a hunter’s thirst to a weapon’s edge. Touch it, and the room feels a little tighter, as if the shadows themselves lean closer to hear the story you’re about to tell. In its colder, brighter world, the Brand of Bloodlust is less a talisman and more a pact. When it rides on your belt or glints at your shoulder, its runes wake with your heartbeat, and the air around you thickens as if you’ve opened the gorge of an illness and poured in your own courage as medicine. Players speak of it as a companion for the disciplined hunter: after a kill, the glyphs flare and the bearer drinks a short draught of bloodlust—a surge that sharpens every strike and turns a routine swing into a scene-stealing flourish. It isn’t merely about raw power; it’s about tempo and appetite—how you pace your fury, how you pull followers of blood into your swing, how you turn a retreating foe into a stain on the ground you stride over. Some wield it with deft precision, weaving its brief gust of ferocity into a longer story of staccato, calculated violence; others use the Brand to brace the nerves during a brittle moment in a siege, letting the thrumming life inside the glyphs guide their blade through the chaos. The item’s place in the world feels woven into markets and memory alike. Traders tell of pilgrim caravans that once traded under the wary watch of night markets, and of the old carrion-wardens who claimed the Brand as a badge for a hunt that would not end until their target lay still. Its real value, though, isn’t only in the buff it grants but in the way it stitches a person’s arc to a broader tale—a story of hunger and survival that threads through every campfire and close-quartered skirmish. And so, when I walked the lanes near the Saddlebag Exchange, the stall signs swinging and sighing with the wind, the price tag on a fresh Brand drew the eye like a warning flare: nine gold and forty silver, someone whispered, a price tag that speaks of rarity, of risk, of the market’s endless appetite for relics that hum with a history you can almost taste. The Seller smiled, and I thought of the belt of old blood-hunters, their knives worn to points, and how this small disk would be the hinge on which a larger story might turn.