Cleric's Mithril Pistol

Cleric's Mithril Pistol gleams with a pale, moon-silver sheen, its slender frame forged from mithril and etched with warding sigils that catch the light like prayers carved into metal. The grip is wrapped in worn leather, smooth from years pressed to a loyal palm, and the barrel tapers to a quiet, almost purring muzzle. Along the sides run minute icons—stars, temple seals, a crescent—that seem to shift when you tilt the weapon, as if the metal itself is listening for a holy whisper. Its finish is so even you could swear it remembers every hand that has touched it, every vow spoken in its presence. If you cradle it one-handed, you can feel a faint, steady thrum—like a distant heartbeat—telling you that this pistol has shared in more battles than most soldiers ever will. Lore has never stood still for this pistol. It’s said to have been forged in a temple foundry where clerics tended to the wounded after a long, brutal campaign, the mithril alloy chosen for its purity and resistance to sorcery. A master smith—a figure half legend, half retired general—wove in blessings learned from healers who prayed not just for life but for balance. They say the weapon’s runic grip carries a pact between iron and oath: a relic that grants steadiness in the moment of crisis and makes the wearer feel as if the world itself slows just enough for a choice to be made. In stories told around campfires and caravans, the Cleric’s Mithril Pistol is less a weapon than a small, portable cathedral: a place where faith and fire meet, where mercy can ride on a single, carefully aimed shot. In practice, the pistol’s presence on a battlefield reads like a quiet, efficient argument for restraint and timing. Its quick-draw capability and precise trigger discipline encourage a playstyle that blends protection and puncture. Some veterans claim that its charged shots carry a faint glow—an ancestral spark that steadies allies within a ring of healing and shields. Others speak of armor-piercing effect, where a pair of rapid shots can soften even the most stubborn frontline, allowing healers to slip in a much-needed rezz or boon. It isn’t flashy, and that’s the point: it fits the cleric’s ethos of measured, purposeful intervention. Wielded well, it becomes a faithful companion in skirmishes where every move must count, every ally protected, every risk calculated. Market days bring a different kind of drama to its story. I watched a seller at the Saddlebag Exchange, the way the stall’s canvas fluttered and the coins clicked, as the tag announced the pistol’s price: three gold and twenty silver, with rarer runs pushing the tag higher when sigils glow and caravans trade in rarer charms. The price shifts with rumors of supply, with the ebb and flow of sieges and pilgrimages, and with merchants who swear the pistol’s blessing makes it worth the premium. Yet even as numbers rise and fall, the Cleric’s Mithril Pistol remains a quiet testament to a world where devotion and commerce share the same breath. So it travels: from temple forges to sunlit markets, into hands that know both mercy and might. It’s not merely a tool, but a page in a larger chronicle—of orders that heal, of orders that defend, and of the artisans who bind faith to steel in the single, enduring word of a well-placed shot.