Knight's Mithril Rifle

Knight's Mithril Rifle gleams in pale, cold light, its barrel a slender arc of silvered ore that seems to hum with quiet energy. The stock is carved from pale timber wrapped in mithril plates, each ringed groove catching reflections of torchlight and casting a soft, bluish glow on the shooter’s hands. Runic etchings wind along the receiver, looping into a knightly crest that promises discipline and endurance. The metal is cool to the touch, almost weightless in balance, yet when you shoulder it, its weight settles in the right place, as if designed to answer a veteran's memory of long marches and hard-fought crossroads. The grip is wrapped in leather darkened by rain and sun, and the trigger sits with a patient, reassuring click that speaks of craftsmanship as much as aim. In the field, the rifle answers a promise with precision. It fires a round that bites with a clean, stinging report, then a bright spark of mithril weather-circles before the bullet finds its mark. Legends say the gun was forged by artisans who once sheltered the Knightly Orders, crystallizing the heroism of frontline guardians into a weapon that favors patience over haste. The rifle’s power isn’t in injury alone but in the countdown between pull and release, the way the weapon seems to read the air for the moment a foe will slip into view. Players note its steady, predictable recoil, its ability to pierce light armor and heavy shields alike when used with careful timing. Beyond the battle, the Knight's Mithril Rifle becomes a storyteller’s prop. It’s carried in portraits of veterans who rose through siege-filled dawns, and in the quiet hours of a caravan stop where caravaneers recount how a shot once turned the tide of a skirmish near a ruined monastery. Its lore threads into the larger tapestry of the world, where blacksmiths still murmur about the day the Knight’s Order blessed the metallurgists with a material both beautiful and stubborn, capable of withstanding the corrosive breath of fire and the damp of long rain-soaked campaigns. In the ledger of the market, its rarity becomes a rumor that travels from stalls to taverns, from a foil-wrapped crate in the back of a street-side shop to the polished counters of Saddlebag Exchange, where traders test their luck on the day’s prices. The price is never fixed for long, and a buyer’s patience can fetch not only debt repayment but a story worth telling at the next rest-stop. To hold it is to feel responsibility, to remember allies who relied on steady hands and a clear sightline, and to understand that sometimes a weapon is not merely a tool of war but a vessel for memory and trust. The Knight’s Mithril Rifle, in its quiet gleam, still invites another, one more careful shot at dawn. I close the issue of a day’s pursuit by slipping the rifle back into its case, and in that moment I hear the bells of a quartermaster’s yard, promising evenings ahead tonight.