Carrion Destroyer Rifle

Carrion Destroyer Rifle rests on the table, its stock carved from pale bone that whispers against a leather sling. The barrel is a deep, lacquered black, with copper inlays that catch the light like old coins. Sigils thread along the receiver, etched in a careful, almost nervous script, and a ragged edge of wear circles every joint where field use has left its mark. A faint, sickly scent clings to the metal—a reminder of carrion scavengers and the wastes they patrol. In the glow of a lantern, the weapon looks both ceremonial and deadly, the sort of tool that carries a burden as heavy as its pull on the trigger. People speak of it as if it were a character in its own right: a weapon that does not forget the terrain it has walked, that hisses when you rack the bolt and settles the moment the wind shifts. When fired, it carries a surprising range and a bite that seems to peel away the armor of common hides, delivering precise blows that carve through smoke and shadow. For those who walk patrol routes along shattered roads, the Carrion Destroyer becomes a kind of partner—unshowy, patient, and loyal—because it rewards restraint more than frenzy. Hunters who have stood in a ruin with dusk leaking through broken windows know its rhythm: a measured pull, a quiet breath, a shot that seems to hear the heartbeat of the quarry before it speaks. In markets where refugees trade stories and gear, you can feel its gravity pull coins from pockets, even if you cannot lift the rifle yourself. The Saddlebag Exchange—the open-air row where traders spread cloth and favors on a wooden counter—does well to place the Destroyer on a careful pedestal, priced not just in silver but in the weight of reputation. I watched a veteran barter for a single barrel-length, half-forgotten, weather-beaten stock, then trade a tattered map and three vials of tincture for the rifle's current owner. The shopkeeper counted out two stacks of silver with a wary smile, then slid the weapon across the bench as if passing along a family heirloom. It is the sort of transaction that tells you this is not merely a tool but a hinge on which many small stories turn: a caravan guard’s margin, a hunter’s last risk, a decision that can tilt the balance of a night watch. On the battlefield of rumor and rumor of battle, the rifle seems to carry a promise—the chance that a single shot can reshape a patrol’s fate, that a careful trigger pull can end a chase before it begins. Its name, both a decree and a warning, echoes in the camps: the carrion may feed on what it encounters, but its destroyer hunts the silence that follows chaos. So it travels—from crowded markets to desolate outposts, from campfire circles to the edge of ruined towers—always by someone’s side, always ready to tell the world what is being defended, and what is being erased in the aftermath.