Dire Orrian Longsword of Bloodlust

Dire Orrian Longsword of Bloodlust rests on a scarred oak counter, its blade a cold, obsidian sweep that drinks torchlight and returns it as a red halo. A fuller runs the length of the steel like a river of dried ink, and sigils etched along its spine glow copper when the flame catches them, the edge catching the eye with a whispering threat. The grip is wrapped in worn red-brown leather, lacquered with oil so it stays dry in rain, and brass rivets hold a small bone pommel that feels almost warm in the hand. The guard arches outward, a metal crescent carved with winged motifs that hint at flight even when the wielder stands still. The blade has a texture—cool, almost alive—that makes the skin along its surface tingle when one runs a palm over it. Lore says it was forged in the last days of Orr, tempered in a forge that survived a sea-storm and a city’s fall, when the ocean crept over broken walls and the air tasted of iron. Some whisper a blood-weaver blessed its heat, others insist the blade learned to hunger, to drink the fear of those it faces and to return a fraction of that fear to its owner as strength. In the hands of a patient fighter, the Dire Orrian Longsword of Bloodlust feels less like a weapon and more like a quiet contract—you give it courage; it gives you endurance and a measure of mercy, or at least the illusion of mercy, when the enemy waver. In practice, the sword is a study in balance. It sings when it strikes, and the bloodlust carries a lifesteal thread that eases fatigue after a hard clash. It thrives in the moment between two breaths, where a single, precise cut can sever a shield’s edge and bleed the fight toward your favor. For skirmishers and frontline duellists, it’s a blade that says: act now, but think twice, for every swing is recorded in the blade’s history and in its future. The item’s prestige isn’t merely in its edge; it’s in the story etched into the metal, in the way crowd whispers echo when it’s sheathed, and in the way veterans tell children that Orr’s last forge still glints in the world’s shadow. And then there is the market, where a story becomes a price tag. At Saddlebag Exchange, a lantern-lit stall tucked behind a masted quay, the blade’s value is weighed against rumor and history, stamped on parchment with a carefully inked tally of coins and favors owed. Buyers trade tales and tattered maps, and the clerk’s steady voice negotiates, not with anger but with respect for the blade’s weight in the room. The Dire Orrian Longsword of Bloodlust sits among other relics, a measured claim that some battles were won not by brute force alone, but by keeping faith with a weapon that remembers the cost of victory. It’s a narrative weapon, a relic that moves through the crowded streets as if walking with breath held, waiting for the next chapter to begin.