Knight's Destroyer Pistol

Knight's Destroyer Pistol sits on the mahogany table, its barrel of hammered steel glinting in the lamplight. The grip is wrapped in weathered burgundy leather, stitched with brass thread that catches as you turn it. The body is slender yet stout, with a flared muzzle and subtle serrations along the top strap. Along the frame, sigils trace a story: three interlocking runes, the crest of a ruined order, and a dragon's talon circling the trigger guard. The pistol's finish wears a mosaic of patina and oil; when you tilt it, you can almost hear the faint clink of chainmail and the distant clang of a courtyard bell. Those who know the old tales say it was forged after a siege at a fortress that never truly fell, tempered in the shadows between oath and ruin. It carried the Knight's oath—a vow to defend the weak, to strike swiftly and justly—yet its power tempted the wearer to forget the line between protection and ownership. The lore threads its pewter sigils into the air whenever a shot is fired, leaving a faint azure afterimage that lingers for a heartbeat. In battle, the Knight's Destroyer Pistol is less about raw power than the discipline it demands. It rewards patient hands and clean aims: a burst before the wind shifts, a precise headshot at range, a reload that comes with the rhythm of a marching drum. For a thief who offers a quick exchange of favors or a pistol-wielder who treats duels as a conversation with fate, it feels like a trusted partner—weapon and talisman. Its projectiles cut through smoke and the spray of magic, not by sheer force but by tempered edges of design and memory. The lore-laden engravings glow faintly when a critical strike lands, as if the Knight's resolve passes through the bullet and into the target. Market-wise, it's a prize that moves on whispered demand and the careful eyes of collectors. In the backroom of Saddlebag Exchange, where crates creak and lanterns swing, a dealer studies the pistol as if diagnosing an old friend. He weighs it in silver and gold, murmuring that a fair price in this quarter trades around three gold and a handful of silver—perhaps a jewel or two—depending on the buyer's whispers and the keeper's memory of the order's debt. A good story, he notes, can fetch more; the pistol’s aura adds as much value as its steel. To hold it is to hold a fragment of a fallen order’s promise; to release it into the world is to let that promise drift down the street, drawing a line from past to present through the hands of whoever dares to wield it. Some nights, you can hear the pistol sigh as a courier moves through an alley, sigils faint in the lantern glow. The memory of a vow kept or broken lingers, reminding every buyer that tools shape the world as much as they strike a target.