Carrion Mithril Rifle gleams with a pale, ice-white sheen, its barrel tapering to a razor-thin point and etched along the length with sigils that catch the light like frost on a blade. The stock is dark, polished wood, its surface absorbing the sun and reflecting it in a quiet, almost darwinian glow; the grip wears a seam of brass that settles warm to the touch when you cradle the weapon. The muzzle wears a delicate mosaic of mithril inlay, a motif of carrion birds frozen in mid-dive, wings curled in a silent, inevitable moment. It feels cool and precise, the texture whispering of careful forge-work and patient hours spent coaxing balance into every notch and screw. If you run a finger along the barrel, you swear you can hear the old stories breathe: a rifle tempered in a plague-warden’s shadow, a tool forged by a smith who learned that mercy and momentum are the same thing when steel meets will. Lore clings to it like oil to a hinge. The name Carrion Mithril Rifle carries more than metal and form; it carries a history of scavengers and the long, slow mercy of distance. Some say it was tempered in a stockyard of bone-white ash, where a necromancer-turned-merchant traded favors with the dead to keep the weapon steady through fear. Others insist the sigils were laid by a collector who believed the bird’s gaze could guide a bullet more surely than a compass. In the markets that dot caravan routes, the rifle’s tale travels as quickly as its shot—a blend of craft, superstition, and earned precision that makes it more than a mere instrument of hunting; it is a chapter you carry with you, a reminder that even in a world ruled by conflict, there are things built to endure. In practice, its significance on the road and in the field is undeniable. It is a long-range answer to sudden ambushes, a way to thin a crowd before they close to melee range, a tool that rewards patience and steady hands. The rifle’s rounds bite through armor with a quiet certainty, then linger in the air as a telltale promise of follow-up—one well-timed shot that creates space, another to press the advantage. Its balance invites a practiced, measured rhythm, a cadence that can shift a skirmish’s tempo—from a sprint to a careful patrol—placing the wielder at the center of the world’s shifting line between danger and deliverance. It is the kind of weapon a hunter would gift to a trusted ally, and the kind of relic that, once earned, changes the stories you tell around a campfire. Price talk enters the tale on a sun-warmed morning at Saddlebag Exchange, where a leathered trader unfurls the rifle across a scarred table and the room holds its breath. The vendor’s fingers trace the sigils as if reading rain on a pane, murmuring that the supply speaks to a patient market—gold-heavy, barter-ready, and ever watchful for a buyer who understands the weapon’s burden as well as its beauty. The price sits heavy in the air, a measured toll for a piece that marries history to habit, fear to fortitude. And so the Carrion Mithril Rifle remains not just a tool of survival, but a story carried on the road—the kind that makes even the dawn itself pause to listen.