Cleric's Darksteel Pistol

Cleric's Darksteel Pistol sits on a scarred oak table, its frame a slab of gunmetal the color of a storm-tossed night. The metal is darksteel—so black it seems to drink light—polished to a dull gleam that catches a glimmer from delicate engravings along the barrel. The grip is wrapped in weathered leather, stitched with pale thread, and pressed with a faint cleric's seal that smells of resin and old prayers. The trigger guard curves like a sinew, and the lines around the muzzle trace delicate runes that glow a soft blue when the weapon's power stirs. Along the length of the barrel, veins of lighter metal weave through the dark, as if lightning refused to be tamed. The pistol feels heavy but balanced, a tool meant for precise mercy as much as blunt force. In the chapel-forge, clerks speak of a lineage. It is said the pistol was hammered from ore blessed by a wandering healer who turned battlefield trauma into tempered steel. Sigils carved into the grip—compass, ear, healing hand—keep every shot focused on mercy. In practice, it is a conduit for vitality in battle: a well-placed shot can spark a brief healing aura for nearby allies, a protective shimmer that eases a dying breath. The same shot that bites through a foe can loosen the knot of a weary squad, buying seconds to breathe and regroup. Journeying through cities and the wild, its reputation travels as easily as its iron does. Fighters carry it against ambushes, clerics bear it as a reminder that mercy has teeth, and engineers regard its balance with professional respect. In tense moments, its runes glow softly—proof that the wearer has learned to pair guncraft with grace, to aim not just for the enemy’s heart but for the moment when a comrade can be steadied. The market tells a story, too, and Saddlebag Exchange is where whispers become coins. A clerk there will weigh the pistol in the palm, note its condition, and verify its provenance—then set a price that shifts with the caravan’s rumors as much as with metal and labor. Traders speak in half-trades and in favors owed: a promise of future courier service, a tale of a narrow escape, a favor to be called upon when the guild requires a quiet deed done at dusk. Some days the cleric’s pistol sits on the counter, a beacon for patient bargaining; other days it slips into a market’s gravity, snagging a fortunate buyer who understands that such a prize is a thread in a larger tapestry. In the end, Cleric's Darksteel Pistol is more than steel and string; it is a hinge between faith and fire, a weapon that reminds those who bear it of the quiet duty at the heart of every shot: to heal, if only by turning away from needless harm, and to endure the danger with measured, purposeful resolve. That balance—fire tempered by care—keeps the cleric's pistol in circulation not as a trophy, but as a reminder that every trade leaves a trace.