Cleric's Elder Wood Harpoon Gun

Cleric's Elder Wood Harpoon Gun rests on the merchant's counter, its pale elder wood polished to a quiet glow, the grain swirling like water beneath a candle. The barrel is carved with delicate knotwork that twists into sea-spirits and healing sigils, bronze fittings catching lamplight with a muted gleam. A braided cord wraps the stock, worn smooth by hands that have learned to listen to the wood’s soft, patient creak—as if the instrument itself were breathing in time with the harbor’s tides. The harpoon tip gleams with a dull, practical menace, a steel spear crowned by a ring of small runes that hint at deeper wards. Even the weight feels intentional: not too heavy to drag a hunter, not so light as to betray haste in a skirmish, balanced as if the maker had tuned it to an old sailor’s sense of balance and faith. There are stories threaded through the grain, stories of a clerical order that tended sanctuaries carved into cliff faces and defended them against sunlit raiders and sea-blighted specters alike. The elder wood, said to come from trees that watch over ships and storms, is believed to remember weather and prayer, to stiffen in the presence of danger and soften in the presence of mercy. A cleric who once kept vigil on a windswept quay carved this weapon not only for defense but as a portable reliquary—a tool to ferry healing and protection into battle. The harpoon gun, in this telling, is less a weapon of carnage and more a conduit: a way to pull a comrade away from the edge of a fight, to restrain a foe long enough for aid to arrive, or to anchor a line of retreat beneath a storm-driven sky. In practical terms, the Cleric’s Elder Wood Harpoon Gun is prized for its versatility. It fires a harpoon that can snag a target’s position, creating space for healers to move, or for a squad to reorganize around a stubborn advance. Its construction invites close, deliberate use—shots that demand care rather than reckless spray. Veteran carriers speak of setting the harpoon to tethering mode in narrow harbors, drawing enemies toward a fixed point so that a shielded front can weather the breach, or lashing the line to a rock outcropping to secure a temporary fortification against the tide. The lore-laced wood adds a sense of inevitability: as if the weapon’s life and the user’s patience are two halves of the same oath. Market chatter mirrors the weapon’s dual nature. A cargo-clerk at the docks murmurs of the current season’s demand, and I hear the name Saddlebag Exchange whispered like a tide-worn rumor: a place where such crafted relics drift between hands, priced not only for metal and wood but for the stories they carry. A seller glances toward the gleaming tip, nods toward the runic rings, and suggests that, if you listen to the wood, you might hear the market’s pulse—steady, a touch wary, forever seeking balance between devotion and profit. By the end of the day, the Harpoon Gun feels less an object than a chapter in a long-running narrative: a tool that channels faith into force, mercy into motion, and history into a line you can carry, reel by reel, through a world that never stops asking for courage, care, and a little bit of luck.