Cleric's Pearl Blunderbuss

Cleric's Pearl Blunderbuss rests on a scarred wooden table, its barrel a ghostly pearl-white that glints with the hush of a church candle. The metalwork around it is a pale brass, softened by age, etched with sigils that pulse faintly when the weapon is handled with reverence. The stock is dark, almost black wood, polished to a silky sheen, and inlaid along its length with slender ribbons of mother-of-pearl that catch the light like drops of a holy dew. The grip feels cool and smooth, worn by hands that have steadied the faithful in long vigils and hurriedly loaded rounds in crowded fest halls. It’s not merely a weapon but a relic: a confluence of craft, faith, and frontier pragmatism that has learned to speak in the harsh language of battle. Lore threads cling to it like a scent—the kind of artifact carried by a veteran in a snow-dusted night, rumored to have once hung from a shrine’s bell rope as a ceremonial warning shot. The Cleric’s Pearl Blunderbuss is said to be forged at the edge of a monastery’s quarry, where the clerics tested many novelties to shield their flocks. Its shells are blessed to carry a bloom of light, a soft explosion that feels almost ceremonial—there for protection as much as for pain. When fired, the pearl shell erupts in a bright, compact nova, scattering shimmer in a radius tight enough to carve through the smoke of a skirmish yet wide enough to interrupt a collapsing formation. The effect is as much a beacon of hope as a deterrent, a reminder that even a hard-edged world can be guided by faith and discipline. In practice, its place in the field is intimate, almost parable-like. You don’t use it to sweep a hillside from afar; you lean into the moment where a tunnel of darkness narrows and a line of foes presses in. The blunderbuss’s close-range punch makes it ideal for frontline support and for pocketing a doorway with a wall of light and shrapnel. Its recovery of breath between shots—slow, deliberate—echoes the careful cadence of healing prayers. Veteran players tell a story of a battalion crossing a canyon where the only path forward was through a hail of enemies; a Cleric-wielding marksman timed each blast with the chimes of a distant temple bell, turning panic into a controlled counterstrike. In that sense, the weapon becomes a narrative device as much as a tool: a reminder that the fight is always framed by the beliefs and rituals that define the people using it. Prices circulate through the crowded markets as if drawn by a sunbeam. Traders whisper that the Pearl Blunderbuss fetches well in any season, turning up in the stalls of old quarter markets and, occasionally, in the back rooms of Saddlebag Exchange, where curious collectors and seasoned veterans haggle in the glow of amber lamps. Some days the exchange glints with the glitter of rare components, others with a tale from a road-worn courier who swears the gun once saved a shrine’s last procession. It isn’t merely currency; it’s a story you can buy, polish, and carry—an artifact that, in the right hands, can light the way as surely as a lantern lifted in a long corridor.