Carrion Mithril Pistol

Carrion Mithril Pistol rests on a velvet cloth, its barrel a dark, hammered mithril that wears a thin patina of frost; along its length, micro-grooves catch light like icy spiderwebs. The grip is wrapped in cracked, oil-dark leather, stitched with sinew until it feels almost alive in your hand, and inlays of bone run along the spine, forming a delicate pattern of carrion birds perched on thorned branches. On the side, a rune of scavenged feathers flares faintly when the weapon is drawn, a sign of the pact between smith and hunter: a tool meant to keep the living safe from the dead, yet forever marked by the price paid to keep the dead from forgetting their stories. Touch it and you can feel the history threaded through the metal: weight that grounds the wrist, balance that invites a practiced finger, and a trigger as smooth as a whispered rumor. In combat the pistol speaks in short, crisp taps, each round prying through light armor and bone with a cold, blue gleam of mithril when it strikes. The pattern of bone on the grip catches the eye, a reminder that this weapon once belonged to a caravan scout who traded silence for speed under a plague-dark sky. Its purpose seems simple, and yet it belongs to a larger calculus: precision over chaos, a methodical advance through a crowd, a tool that makes the hunter’s patience a weapon in itself. Collectors and players who carry it learn its rhythm: a quick poke with the offhand to bait a gambit, then a longer breath before the second shot—enough to sting through armor, enough to unnerve a foe enough to break their lines. It isn’t just about damage; it’s about telling a story with every reload, about the way a weapon can be a witness. The market has kept faith with that tale, trading hands and rumors, the price often whispered at the edge of Saddlebag Exchange as if the numbers themselves carried dust and memory. A buyer might pay with gold and goodwill, a vendor with a promise of future favors, and both walk away feeling a little closer to the caravan routes where the pistol earned its name. And so the Carrion Mithril Pistol travels from stall to campfire, a quiet guardian that glows faintly when magic lingers in the air. It becomes part of a larger narrative: a solitary scout slipping through market crowds, a hunter who respects the silence between shots, a reminder that even forged metal remembers the fear that came before the night’s peace. The Saddlebag Exchange ledger glints in the dim light, its line-item both a price and a pledge—that some stories, like this weapon, are bought not just with coin but with memory, with the knowledge that the next blast might save a life or end a threat. If you listen closely at dusk in a crowded square, you can hear the soft click of the action and the distant echo of a cart rolling away. That sound, for those who know this pistol, is a promise—that the next hunt could begin with a single, careful breath.