Carrion Mithril Pistol

The Carrion Mithril Pistol gleams in pale, frost-lit light, a slender tube of mithril that seems to breathe when you tilt it, its surface a pale ghostly blue where the metal catches the air. The barrel is etched with bone-white sigils that coil along its length, as if the weapon were writing its own epitaph with every breath of wind. The grip is wrapped in dark, tanned leather that feels both supple and unyielding, and along the spine of the pistol a crest of carved bone shapes itself into a subtle, macabre crown. It is as if a lost hunter’s relic found a second life in iron and ash, a relic that would rather whisper than shout, if pistols could whisper. The finish has a chill to it, a frost-kissed patina that refuses to warm in your hand, and the weight sits perfectly balanced—heavy enough to feel real, light enough not to tire a quick-drawn wrist. Lore circles around the Carrion Mithril Pistol as if the smoke of a pyre could be pressed into steel: a weapon said to be forged under the shadow of carrion rites, tempered by a pact between metals and bone, and carried by those who walk the fine line between what remains and what refuses to die. In the tales, its maker is a nameless smith who spoke to the dead as one speaks to an old neighbor, listening for the murmurs of the long-forgotten to guide the hammer. The mithril lends the pistol a rare swiftness and a cold clarity that make each shot feel almost surgical, yet the carrion sigils lend a warning to the living—that every trigger-pull draws a thread from the past into the present, binding shooter and quarry in a moment that may outlive them both. To hold it is to sense a larger story at work: a weapon built not merely to kill, but to remind, to honor the silent weight of those who walked these lands before us, and to remind us that every market square, every caravan stop, every crowded stall is a place where histories exchange hands as readily as coin. I found mine not in the glittering conjury of a hall but in the rough-and-tumble of the Saddlebag Exchange, where a hawker with eyes like chipped glass slid the pistol across a scarred counter and muttered that it carried more than metal—it carried a rumor. The price, spoken in silver coins that winked in the lamplight, shifted with whispers of demand and the provenance of the ore. It felt right to trade there, among traders who measured value not only in what they could sell, but in the stories they could barter along with the weapons themselves. The Exchange has its own heartbeat, and the Carrion Mithril Pistol seems to beat with it—the quiet, inexorable tempo of a market that refuses to forget. Back in the street, with the pistol tucked at my hip, I learned its rhythm: a quick, clean draw followed by a pair of measured shots that keep distance steady and nerves steady as well. It’s a weapon that asks you to move, to weave, to read the space between pursuer and pursued, to let the sigils guide your aim so that every release feels earned, not merely spent. The Carrion Mithril Pistol is not merely gear; it’s a bridge between memory and momentum, a tool that makes the world feel a little larger and a little more haunted with every pull of its cold, elegant trigger.