Malign Green Wood Harpoon Gun

The Malign Green Wood Harpoon Gun sits on the scarred workbench like a watcher from a misted harbor, its stock carved from a stubborn greenwood that seems to drink light and give it back in a soft, sickly glow. The wood’s grain twists in rings of bronze-green sap, as though the tree itself leaned into the memory of storm-tossed seas. The barrel and fittings are a patchwork of patinated brass and iron, lacquered in a gloss that catches every glimmer of lantern flame. Along the grip runs a network of inky runes, carved with meticulous care and filled with a resin that hints at venom and salt. When you pick it up, the weight feels ancient and sure, the balance coaxing your elbow into a hunter’s posture, as if the weapon has waited for generations for someone to notice its particular hunger. The harpoons ride a shallow rack down the spine of the gun, gleaming with a cold, green sheen, each one sharpened to a whisper and bound by a cord of rough hemp—the kind you’d see binding ropes on a weather-worn pier. There is a rumor stitched into its lore—the idea that the green wood never wholly forgot the grove from which it was born. Some say a coven of river witches bound the wood to a curse that thrives on embers and rain, a malignant sap that remembers every echo of a shout on the water. That memory doesn’t just haunt the weapon; it lends a quiet, almost patient menace to every shot. More grounded minds claim the glow is simply the sap’s aftermath, a stubborn pigment that refuses to fade in the damp air of coastal cities. Either way, the Malign Green Wood Harpoon Gun carries a story in its grain, a patient tension that makes the air around it feel charged, like a net drawn tight just before a catch. In the field, its uses feel part of a larger story rather than a mere upgrade. You hear the soft creak of the line as you shoulder the weapon and choose your mark. One harpoon can pin an enemy to a post, or snag a totem, dragging the target within reach for a calculated follow-up, while another shot can tether a foe to a brick wall or a fellow ally’s shield-surge, letting you choreograph a quick, brutal sequence. Its accuracy rewards patient shots and careful timing, turning cramped alleyways or dockside quays into a stage where control matters more than raw speed. The Malign Green Wood Harpoon Gun isn’t just a tool of damage; it’s a device of repositioning, a means to narrate a skirmish with rope and iron rather than pure force. Market whispers thread into the tale as you move from harbor stall to market stall. At Saddlebag Exchange, a weathered clerk eyes the weapon’s green glow and nods with a knowing sort of respect. The price shifts with tides and tales—the board lists it for a handful of gold, a sum the right buyer can negotiate down if you’ve got the right story to trade—some old map, a chorus of sea-wind memories, a promise of a debt repaid in kind. It’s the sort of item that threads its way through the docks and taverns, always a move away from becoming someone’s prize or someone’s shelter, always a story waiting to be written anew.