The Cross of Fire was forged by Brother Eóghan during the darkest days of Bloodmill’s pestilence. Blessed with sacred prayers and tempered in the fires of desperation, the cross flies to strike the wicked and returns, carrying the lingering faith of those long gone. Wherever it lands, corruption falters, and the air shivers with the echo of prayers whispered over the dying. It is said that the cross itself remembers Eóghan’s vow: to cleanse the city of rot and bring peace to the restless dead.
Said to have been blessed — or cursed — by the very plague that consumed Bloodmill, the Seeker’s arrows twist through the air with unnatural purpose. They hunt the lifeblood of the wicked, curving toward their prey as though drawn by the city’s unending thirst for vengeance. In the hands of the worthy, it is judgment. In the hands of the unworthy, it is ruin.
The Cross of the Plague was forged by Brother Eóghan during the darkest days of Bloodmill’s pestilence. Blessed with sacred prayers and tempered in the fires of desperation, the cross flies to strike the wicked and returns, carrying the lingering faith of those long gone. Wherever it lands, corruption falters, and the air shivers with the echo of prayers whispered over the dying. It is said that the cross itself remembers Eóghan’s vow: to cleanse the city of rot and bring peace to the restless dead.
Sickle of the Wilderness - Scian na Fásaigh was carved from the heartwood of an ancient Irish oak and tempered under the first frost of Samhain. In the hands of Druid Fionnán, it harvested the dying and cleansed the land, swinging in rhythm with the cycles of life and death. Its crescent blade hums with the whisper of the wilds, guiding its wielder to strike at corruption wherever it takes root.
Once wielded by plague doctors who sought to bleed away sickness, the Fleam of Fate was said to choose its victims as much as its master. Each thrust carries uncanny speed, piercing with surgical precision, as if guided by fate itself. Some claim it bleeds the wicked clean; others whisper it only spreads the curse further, drinking deeper with every strike.
The Tinneglass was carried by alchemists who walked among the sick of Bloodmill. Within its fragile walls burns a shifting light — sometimes balm, sometimes poison. Cast at the foe, the glass shatters in a burst of flame and smoke, a fragment of the plague doctors’ desperate art. To wield it is to hold fire in your hand, uncertain whether it will heal or destroy
