Carrion Elder Wood Harpoon Gun

The Carrion Elder Wood Harpoon Gun rests on a driftwood rack, its barrel carved from deep, weathered elder wood. The grain coils like tidal knots, darkened where salt and wind etched their marks. A slender forearm is wrapped in worn leather, stitched with sinew that has darkened to a coppery patina. The stock bears inlays of pale bone—stylized carrion birds whose eyes seem to gleam with a patient predation—while copper rivets catch the light along every joint. The muzzle wears a ring of etched runes, faint crescents that glow faintly when the sea air grows cold. It feels ancient and practical at once, as if it had outlasted a hundred salvage dives and whispered a dozen legends into the hands that would wield it. Locals speak of the carrion elders—the rootbound trees said to feed on rot and memory along the nameless coastlines—whose wood gathers the ache and stubborn resilience of the sea. To hold a weapon carved from that timber is to cradle a story rather than a mere tool: a memory of ships scraping the reef, of gulls wheeling over drowned wrecks, of hands that learned to listen to drift and current. The elder wood seems to hum with a slow, patient rhythm as you shoulder the gun; not a roar but a careful breath, as if the weapon waits for a moment when action is earned rather than demanded. In the field, the gun becomes a kind of conversation with the water. Its harpoon—barbed, stout, and perfectly balanced—slices the air and finds a target with the tang of a well-tuned instrument. When fired, the line cleaves a path through spray, and the harpoon can latch onto a stubborn mast, a blocking crate, or a snarling foe, turning distance into leverage with a single, decisive twist of the wrist. It is not the flashiest tool in a hunter’s kit, but it offers control: a tether that can haul, anchor, or pull a slippery foe into range for a follow-up strike, a tool that rewards timing, patience, and a hunter’s sense for the sea’s moods. A partner to traps and terrain, it thrives where danger and opportunity mingle: the deck at dusk, the tide-washed quay, the narrow inlet where a careful shot can steer the tide of a fight. Market days soften the edge of such weapons and sharpen the edge of a story. In the bustling stalls of Saddlebag Exchange, a steady-eyed merchant handles a line of sailors and scavengers who crave the memory of elder wood as much as its utility. The price sits in the low golds, a figure that shifts with weather, demand, and the buyer’s coin purse, as if the sea itself negotiates the deal. Haggling threads its way through tales of salvaged wrecks and long journeys, each coin exchanged a small tribute to the gun’s weighty history. If you walk away with it, you aren’t just purchasing a weapon; you’re taking a map back to the coast where the carrion trees sway, and every tide writes a new line in the gun’s old, patient song. And so the Carrion Elder Wood Harpoon Gun remains a rare instrument, speaking softly of hunters who honor the sea’s memory while shaping their own fate with a steady hand and a line that can pull one note into a chorus.