Cleric's Mithril Rifle

Cleric's Mithril Rifle rests on a velvet cloth, its barrel a slender cylinder of gleaming mithril that catches candlelight in a hundred tiny halos. The metal hums with possible prayer, and fine runes trace along the length in a script that looks almost musical when the eye catches it from the corner of the room. The stock is carved from pale timber, smooth as a well-worn prayer book, with thin bands of inlaid bone and a ribbon of enamel that shifts from sea-green to starlight blue when the weapon tilts in the light. Across the receiver, sigils of healing and warding coil in delicate, measured lines, while the breech bears a carved crest — a hand cupping a sun, an image of mercy rendered in metal. It feels light enough to swing with precision, heavy enough to feel real when you lean into a shot. Lore whispers that the rifle was tempered in a cloister’s quiet forge, where moonlight was poured over molten mithril and blessing was pressed into the metal by hands that had fed the sick and sheltered pilgrims. It is said to have traveled with healers as they tended wounded in unforgiving marches, and to have proven patient and faithful in the hands of those who believed a single, well-aimed breath could save a life or turn the tide of a skirmish. Each engraving seems to hold a small memory: a battlefield lull, a quiet vigil, a ritual of cleansing carried out under a night sky. If you listen closely, the weapon sounds like a short, resolute hymn rather than a weapon’s report. In practical terms, the Cleric's Mithril Rifle is more than a status symbol; it’s a bridge between defense and offense, between mercy and necessity. Its shots are precise, meant to pierce fatigue in an ally’s line as surely as they carve through an enemy’s guard. When paired with supportive moves—boons that shield, heal, or cleanse—its cadence becomes a rhythm of rescue: a well-timed pull of the trigger that buys time for a healer to reach a fallen comrade, or a careful strike that breaks a foe’s momentum long enough for the rest of the party to form a safer perimeter. Players who lean into support roles discover a surprising synergy—the rifle’s cooldowns and the wielder’s timing weaving together into a portable anchor for the team. It feels less like a hunting tool and more like a chapel in motion, a sanctuary that travels with the squad. Market days bring the rifle into the story in quieter, human terms. I’ve watched buyers circle the stalls at Saddlebag Exchange, the familiar clack of coin purses and the rustle of faded banners setting the rhythm. The clerks there trade in stories as much as in steel, and a Cleric’s Mithril Rifle rarely leaves without a soft, respectful appraisal. A dealer will name a price in gold and silver, careful to weigh its history as much as its steel, because the bone inlays whisper of pilgrims and prayers while the mithril speaks of endurance. It’s a price that shifts with tides of demand, yet the Rifle’s reputation tends to anchor value: a trusted companion for a healer who refuses to surrender a single ally to the dark. When you finally cradle it again, you’re holding more than metal and wood; you’re holding a vow the world has learned to trust. A weapon that can be both shield and spear, a relic of mercy made ready for the next road, the next battle, the next prayer.