Dire Orrian Bow of Bloodlust

Dire Orrian Bow of Bloodlust rests on a scarred oak table, its limbs lacquered the color of a moonless tide and carved with the braided ribs of a long-dead ship. The grip is wrapped in weathered leather that has seen countless suns rise over salt-stung harbors, slick with oil and fingerprints; the string, pale as new snowfall, is taut enough to hum with a whisper when you draw. In the candlelight the bow’s belly shows a faint copper inlay, a sigil that glimmers like wet coins—a crescent cradling a blade, the emblem of a lineage that braided blood, sea, and steel. Its surface wears the patina of battles, not from dirt but from the memories of those who faced it and forgot to fear. The texture alternates between the smoothness of polished horn and the rugged grain of oak that has learned to bend, never break, under pressure. When you hold it, the weapon seems to tilt its head toward you, as if listening for the heartbeat of its next target. Lore swirls around the bow like sea spray. It is said to have been forged in Orrian for a notorious raider whose name has become a whispered warning—someone who believed that every life spilled bent the world’s balance toward his own gain. The Bloodlust of the weapon is not merely cruel; it is patient. The more you draw blood with its arrows, the more the bow seems to drink from the battlefield, feeding your vitality or sharpening your resolve with each successful strike. In quieter moments, the sigil glows a dim crimson, a reminder that the weapon’s appetite is not random hunger but a studied hunger, tempered by the oaths of its bearers and the tides of the coast. In play, the bow feels like a partner in a larger story—a hunter’s instrument that rewards precision and timing. Its shots carry a pulse of lifeblood that translates into favorable fates in combat. Critical hits draw the weapon’s energy from the target and return some measure of it to the wielder, making long skirmishes feel like conversations where every word is an arrow and every response feeds you back. The Bloodlust also thrives on condition damage, weaving bleeding or poison into a tapestry that the bow untangles with every release. It is not merely about raw damage; it is about turning each engagement into a narrative beat, a moment in which the wielder writes a line in the ledger of a caravan, a besieged harbor, or a lone outpost under a blood-red sky. The market often tells its story too, with the old harbor stalls and traveling carts whispering prices in coin and trade. At Saddlebag Exchange, a quiet booth keeper with ink-stained fingers weighed the bow against a little storm of gold and trade goods, noting that exotic items like this pull a premium, even in times of plenty. It wasn’t just the metal and wood that counted; the bow carried a myth that could be traded as surely as any gem, a rumor of power and peril that could sway a buyer as deftly as a well-aimed shot. In the end, the bow found a new listener in the hands of a wary guardian, someone who understood that the Bloodlust is as much a responsibility as a weapon, a reminder of the price paid when a story chooses you to carry it forward.