Carrion Elder Wood Harpoon Gun

Carrion Elder Wood Harpoon Gun sits on a sun-warped plank, its stock carved from carrion elder wood—dark as raven wing, the grain winding like weather-streaked driftwood and faint veins of pale resin catching the light. The barrel is a pale, bone-hardened cylinder, punctuated with rivets and a ring of worn brass near the muzzle, while the grip bears a scarred hide of leather that’s slick with the oil of alerts long passed. Glyphs etched in ivory-white line the stock, telling of a hunter who treated the sea as a ledger and the tide as a witness. The harpoon head itself gleams with a cruel efficiency, a frost-bitten bite of metal wrapped in a braid of hemp rope that looks ready to lash out at any surprise. The whole thing carries the tang of salt and old rain, as if it had spent decades leaning against the hull of a forgotten schooner while the world turned around it. There’s a quiet weight to it, not just in the metal, but in the lore it carries—the idea that elder wood remembers every storm it survived, and every creature that fell to it. In the hands of a practiced hunter, this weapon becomes a thread between land and water, a tool for bending a map to the will of skirmish and shelter. The harpoon launcher bites steel-hard into the air, catching line and moment in a single breath; you fire, and the tethering arc drags a target, or a knob of rock, within arm’s reach of your squad’s safest haven. It’s not merely a weapon of offense; it’s a pivot point for strategy, letting a party cross a gaping chasm, haul a drowning ally up from the spray, or pin a foe against a buoy-strewn pier where arrows lose their edge. The reload is patient, the aim deliberate, and the satisfaction of a perfect tether—when the line ticks tight and the target is hauled into range—feels almost ceremonial, as if every shot writes a small line of history into the water. The world around it keeps turning, clippers and caravans moving along the coast, traders shouting from dockyard to market. Saddlebag Exchange is the kind of place where this gun finds a partner in progress and risk, a stall-dusted counter where worth is weighed not just in coin but in stories. A negotiator with chalky sleeves will ledger the harpoon’s worth against pelts, bits of ore, or a favor owed, and the price shifts with the tide, as predictable as the sea itself. When the deal closes, the weapon finds its new owner’s hands as if it had always belonged there, ready to answer the call when fog rolls in and the surf breaks against the pilings. In a world built on supply, blood, and weather, the Carrion Elder Wood Harpoon Gun is less a tool and more a memory in motion, a promise that what you pull toward you may save your life, or reveal a path you hadn’t known existed.