Cleric's Destroyer Rifle

Cleric's Destroyer Rifle rests on a faded velvet cloth, its barrel a pale, polished steel etched with argent sigils that trace like prayer beads along its length. The stock is carved from smooth, light-hued wood, wrapped in pale linen and bound with coppery brass filigree that catches the light with a soft halo. The grip bears an inlay of turquoise, and at the muzzle a faint glow breathes outward, as if the weapon keeps a patient flame inside. Inscribed on the receiver are relic lines from a long-forgotten order, the runes matching the cloth of a healing cloister and the banners of a battlefield long past. A whisper of sanctified wind seems to precede the trigger, and when fired the rifle exhales a line of silvery light and a note of quiet thunder. In the hands of a careful gunsmith or a wary field medic, it becomes more than a weapon: it is a conduit. The Cleric's line, as old smiths tell, was forged where healing and judgment cross. It channels holy energy through its shot, turning raw force into measured discipline. The bullets braid light with impact, and the blast carries not only damage but a ripple of cleansing, as if the air itself remembers and releases toxins or curses that once clung to a skirmish’s aftermath. Soldiers speak of its recoil as a measured breath, a reminder that violence can be tempered by purpose. Rangers and guardians who favor precision find it sings to their style—the rifle’s long reach and its habit of punching through gauntlets and smoke with surgical accuracy. Yet its charm is more than performance. The weapon has traveled through monasteries besieged, through markets crowded with refugees, through back-alley forges where scavengers barter parts for coins. It has changed hands in whispered exchanges and in the laughter of caravans moving along dusty roads. A veteran remembered the day a healer traded an old diary for the rifle, so she could mend not only bodies but the memory of battles won and lost. The tale threads through the world, a map of who has trusted the Destroyer to do more than just kill. On the open market, even a blade of such shadowed grace must find a buyer. In the bustling saddle-lined lanes of the Saddlebag Exchange, a skilled broker laid bare the rifle’s story and its price, speaking in terms of trust and value rather than mere gold. The bid rose and fell with every empathetic nod—the kind of negotiation that makes a weapon feel less like a tool and more like a partner in a long, uncertain march. The listing drew the eye of explorers, healers, and vexed scavengers, all imagining how many lives a single shot could illuminate, or avenge. So it remains, a relic and a verdict in one gleaming measure. Cleric's Destroyer Rifle does not merely end fights; it reframes them, stitching together mercy and might in a world that never ceases to ask for both. Its story keeps walking forward.