Carrion Darksteel Pistol

Carrion Darksteel Pistol rests on the table like a coin from a long-forgotten market: its frame a cold, matte black, the barrel narrow and bruised with tiny pits that catch the light like a constellation of scavenged stars. The grip is wrapped in tattered leather, torn at the edges, stained with oil. Along the flank, a relief of carrion birds—bone-white feathers against dark steel—circles a small looping rune that glows faintly when the pistol is drawn. The whole thing carries the weight of a story: a weapon born where plague bells once tolled, tempered in the forges of a caravan camp where mercenaries traded news for shells of black powder. Its name, Carrion Darksteel Pistol, seems almost a whisper rather than a label, a reminder that metal and mortality share a single workshop. In the hands of a careful shot, its balance feels almost surgical. The pistol sits low in the palm, the trigger a whisper, the hammer a crisp click that echoes in a narrow corridor after a skirmish. The finish holds every breath of its maker, a texture that is cool to the touch yet stubborn to glare at; you can feel the years of use in the micro-scratches that map the metal like a street grid. Lore keeps pace with the feel—stories say the pistol was tempered with carrion ash, a ritual of renewal for a weapon meant to survive the quiet and the scream alike. Some whisper that it was once a courier’s last gift, a tool to carve a path through fog and fever when a map went dead at the edge of a ruined camp. Beyond its beauty, the Carrion Darksteel Pistol is a tool with a purpose. In battle, it rewards careful aim and a swift pair of hands. Its shots bite with a sheen of precision, ideal for picking off key targets in a skirmish before the crowd closes in. It’s a piece that wants to be paired with timing—streaks of poison or bleed, a puncture to break a shield, and a momentary silence to let a plan take shape. The world doesn’t forget a weapon like this; it passes through camps, traders, and taverns, leaving a trace in stories and in drops of oil on a weathered map. On the market side, the Saddlebag Exchange carries the pistol like a token: a traded rumor wrapped in leather, a price that shifts with the wind. I watched a barter unfold where a hunter-eyed buyer offered a bundle of pelts and a compass in exchange for a carefully balanced counterweight of gold. The owner weighed it with the calm arithmetic of a man who has counted coins by the candlelight, then slid the pistol back into its sack, promising a fair deal for the right hunter. The exchange is a crossroad where history, appetite, and risk meet, and the pistol remains a quiet omen of what a single weapon can still mean in a world of wings. Winds rise; stories grow louder tonight.