Dire Orrian Focus of Bloodlust

Dire Orrian Focus of Bloodlust sits in the palm like a dried, gleaming eye—a teardrop of obsidian glass bound in iron filigree, its surface etched with runes that pulse with a faint vermilion glow. The texture is cool and rasping to the touch, as if carved from a shard of the Black Gate itself, with tiny ridges that catch the light and send it skittering along its facets. A central core, ruby-dark and stubborn, throbs with a heartbeat you feel in the bone rather than the ear. When the relic is held up to lamplight, threadlike veins of lacquered red thread through the stone, making it look hunted by some unseen hunter you cannot quite name. In the lore of the Orrian elite, such a focus was forged to bind a warlord’s tempers to the wearer’s breath, a trophy of ritual blood magic seized from a battlefield where the dying cried out to be remembered rather than forgotten. Within tavern whispers and ruined towers, travelers tell of how a wielder could mold life into power with a single breath, how the focus siphons a thread of life from the world and weaves it into flame. It pairs with the wearer’s devotion to bloodlust, turning channelled fury into sharper wards, more devastating strikes, and a lasting presence in the fight that feels almost like a shadow of the wearer’s will. In practical terms, the Dire Orrian Focus of Bloodlust serves as a conduit—its taps and taps of life force fueling your spells, granting increased lifesteal and stronger condition application, while sharpening your focus for a flurry of intensified attacks. People who chase it say it doesn’t simply enhance its owner’s power; it rewrites the sense of what the battlefield demands, coercing your rivals to respond to the crimson aura you carry as if it were a living alarm. Market rumors describe it not as a mere tool but as a character in a wider narrative—the sort of artifact that unsettles a guild house and stirs a courier into sleepless nights. The Saddlebag Exchange, that quirky bazaar tucked behind the docks where traders barter by lamplight and memory, has seen its price swing with fortunes. A wary vendor once pegged the focus at about a gold and a handful of silver, enough to test a buyer’s resolve and the strength of their lore. Some evenings, you’ll hear a different tally: a bargain for those who can speak to the past and a warning for those who would wear it recklessly. Yet, no matter the price, the focus remains more than metal; it’s a thread that links a whisper of the Orrian empire to the present, a reminder that power in this world is never merely granted—it is earned, bled, and believed in, thread by turning thread, until the wearer and the relic finally fuse into a single story that will outlive the date on any parchment. In quiet corners, scribes debate its fate, while new owners wonder what true power asks today.