Shaman's Norn Pistol of Air

Shaman's Norn Pistol of Air rests on a worn velvet pad, its barrel pale steel etched with wind-riven runes that shimmer like frost in dawn light. The grip, wrapped in fox-hide leather, feels cold and pleasantly tacky between the fingers, a texture that speaks of long winters and patient crafts. Inlayed bone crescents trace the grip’s curve, catching a glint of pale blue when the runes catch a stray spark. A tassel of weather-dark threads hangs from the hammer, fluttering with the tiniest draft as if a breath of northern storms still clings to the weapon. The whole thing carries a weight that promises balance and precision, a thing you hold steady not with brute force but with the calm steadying of a hunter who knows how to listen to the wind. Legends say it was forged by a cadre of Norn shamans who sought to bind the restless air itself to a solid, reliable device. The tale goes that the weapon houses a wind-spirit, a capricious ally named Gale-Watcher, coaxed into alignment by drumbeats, by the runoff of storm-riddled turf, by the steady hand of a patient crafter. When the pistol bites the air, it does not merely discharge a round; it loosens a gust, a narrow corridor of pressure that travels with intent. Sightlines become cleaner, angles more honest, as if the world itself conspired to give the shooter a moment more of control in exchange for respect paid to the weather’s stubborn mood. In the mouths of storytellers, the Shaman’s pistol is less a tool than a pact—a reminder that in the north, every shot carries a memory of wind and ice. In the battlefield or the backroads, its role feels woven into the fabric of the world around it. The gun’s design translates into practical prowess: a tight, controllable spray of force that can punch through light armor, thread a path through skirmishes where cover and terrain flip the odds, and yank an opponent off balance just long enough to tilt a fight in your favor. Wielders speak of it as a weapon of discipline—not flashy, but deeply satisfying to those who read the wind, who time their shots with the hush between gusts, who treat each trigger pull as a small weather system in miniature. Its aerodynamics reward accuracy and patience, letting a practiced hand fling a bolt of air that travels true, as if guided by the same currents that sweep across the Shiverpeak passes. The market that cradles such relics has its own weather. A merchant’s stall, weathered canvas sagging in a careless breeze, sits under the awning of Saddlebag Exchange, where coins talk as loudly as stories. A tag, scratched with chalk, marks the pistol at 3 silver and 52 copper, a price that makes even seasoned traders pause to weigh risk against tradition. The haggle is a soft negotiation, a chorus of vowels and consonants traded as freely as rumors about rival storm-walkers. In the end, the Shaman’s Norn Pistol of Air finds a new owner who understands that this is more than metal and wood; it’s a pledge to listen to the wind, to let a gust guide a shot, and to keep faith with the storm even as the world moves on.