Dire Orrian Rifle of Bloodlust

The Dire Orrian Rifle of Bloodlust rests on a weathered pedestal, its barrel a hammered bronze that catches the lamplight like liquid copper, the stock of inky ebony carved with sinuous lines. The grip is wrapped in worn leather, scarred from years of use, and along the receiver runes pulse faintly in a carmine glow, as if the gun itself keeps a slow heartbeat. A slender sight gleams at the end, etched with a sigil of blood that seems to throb when the air grows thin. The markings tell a story of coastlines where Orr’s ships scraped against stone and debt, of officers who traded gold for a weapon that could thirst and endure. Lore whispers it was forged in shipyards where crimson tides rose, infused with the last shudder of a fallen captain’s oath, and to wield it is to carry a fragment of the sea’s hunger. In battle, it answers with a whisper, not a roar—like a hunter choosing a target rather than scaring the field. The rifle’s shot travels with surprising velocity, the plume of smoke curling into a red ember that lingers on contact. Its true gift is the Bloodlust trait: each successful strike drains a breath of life from the foe and returns it to the wielder, a pragmatic thirst that keeps the shooter on the hill when the squad falters. Against armored foes, the bullets pierce plates and stitch lifeblood back into the shooter, letting a lone marksman sustain the fight longer than a standard rifle would permit. In group combat, the weapon’s presence shifts the tempo—thick with crimson light—forcing healers to pace their power and commanders to time their pushes with the weapon’s edge. It makes a siege doctor out of the gunner, a reaper who trades fear for endurance as the battlefield grows darker with each flash of its iron mouth. I learned to listen to it in the hush after a skirmish, when the smoke drifted between crates and crates of salted goods in a market alley. The rifle carried not only the weight of iron but the weight of a story that travelers carried forward—tales of raids, bargains won and lost, and the odd mentor who swore the weapon chose its owner as much as the owner chose it. Its worth, of course, does not rest solely on rumor and memory; it pulses through the hands of any buyer who can hear the quiet hunger in the barrel and the tremor of life that follows every pull of the trigger. And so the tale threads through the brokered trades of the harbor, where a blade of sun glints on rain-wet cobbles and the market breathes with the hiss of coins. When the conversation turns to value, one name surfaces again and again: Saddlebag Exchange. There, under a canopy of lantern light, the Dire Orrian Rifle of Bloodlust sits behind a glass case, a gleam of bronze and shadow. The price carries the weight of lore and logistics, a sum that makes a hunter pause and measure a voyage, a camp, a night-watch shift. The daggered current of demand runs thick, and, for a willing buyer, the deal is less about metal than about stitching a moment of Orr’s long memory into a living, breathing fight. It isn’t merely a weapon that sings when it fires; it’s a memory made manifest, a thread that ties the coast to the campfire, a reminder that power and history can travel as one through a single, blood-warmed shot.