Knight's Mithril Rifle gleams under torchlight, its barrel a pale, frost-kissed tube of mithril that seems to breathe with every flicker of the flame. The stock is dark walnut, smooth as river stone, carved with a knight's helm and scrolling sigils that catch the glow in a living way. Along the action a thin inlay of silvered filigree traces runes in a script no drill could bore, and the butt cap bears a tiny compass rose that steadies a gaze even when the wind howls across ruined walls. The finish is cooler to the touch than wood or steel—slick, almost wet-feeling—yet the roughness of the engravings gives way to a more organic texture where the work meets the weathered fingers of a traveler. Lore is whispered: this rifle, they say, was forged not merely to kill but to remind a knightly order of the path back from despair, to defend caravans along the salt-strewn trade routes where dust tastes of iron. Some say it carried the weight of a vow made on a fallen banner; others say it is a relic of a siege that wore the night into silver, shining whenever the moon is high. In any telling, it is treated as more than steel; it is a symbol, a storyteller's prop that travels with whoever bears it and speaks through the hands that hold it. In gameplay terms, the Knight's Mithril Rifle functions as a long-range cornerstone for a user who aims to pin enemies at a distance while their squad closes in. It is prized for clean, precise shots that can break a shield in a heartbeat, giving a team the opening needed to push through a chokepoint or escort a caravan under fire. Players who value patience over pace find it rewarding: a cool breath at the scope, the world tilting a fraction as you line up a shot, the trigger's soft report followed by a ripple of impact that buckles armor and morale in equal measure. Customization in the field—more weight on the stock to steady each breath, a lighter barrel to speed your follow-up, or a moonstone lens that sharpens twilight—makes the rifle feel like a companion on long patrols, not a mere tool. The market scene lingers in the memory too, because trade is survival here. At the Saddlebag Exchange, a seasoned trader in a hooded cloak rows through a ledger of wares and rumors, fingering the Knight's Mithril Rifle with reverent caution. He names a price that makes even veterans pause, then nods to a caravan master who has trekked from distant passes. They bargain, not with fists but with stories—about dawn arrivals and nights of ambush—until the rifle moves from one traveler to another, a link in the chain that binds the world together, one measured shot at a time. For some, the rifle is more than hardware; it is a mentor, reminding its bearer of discipline, mercy, and the weight of responsibility when power rests in careful hands, in choice.