Mending Norn Rifle of Earth gleams under stall-light, its barrel etched with stone sigils and its ashwood stock dark with the patina of long use. Brass bands circle the muzzle, and a leather sling is stitched with thread that looks like dried river roots. A geode inset in the forend catches lamplight and fractures it into tiny amber stars. The name is carved along the lower receiver in a Norn script that seems to hum when you cradle it in your hands, as if the instrument remembers where the earth itself once slept. Lore has it forged beside a glacier’s edge by a stubborn gunsmith who listened to the soil, tempering the metal with a healing sigil socketed into the stock, so every shot carries a patient pulse. In the field, the rifle is not merely a tool for punching through armor; it is a story you tell with each pull of the trigger. The Mending Norn Rifle of Earth channels slow, patient energy as you aim, so that every fifth or so shot sends a small but tangible wave of restoration outward, mending wounds in your line as if the ground itself were leaning in to lend a hand. The earth sigils glow faintly with each impact, a reminder that the weapon’s essence belongs to the land as much as to the shooter. Its projectiles cut a clean path through dust and shadow, yet they carry a quiet purpose: to steady a squad in chaos, to shelter a healer as they weave cures, to anchor a unit when the terrain seems to conspire against them. In seasoned hands, it becomes a narrative device—the moment when a frontline pushes forward not by raw damage alone, but by the earth’s slow, stubborn care that follows. The rifle’s significance grows when you consider the world it travels through—the way settlements trade, the way caravans bend the road to pass along supplies, and the way a healer’s whispers can travel farther than a shot. Saddlebag Exchange, a traveling market tucked between riverbanks and rain-slick palisades, becomes part of the rifle’s legend. A weathered dealer lays the weapon on a scarred cloak, tracing the sigils with a finger and murmuring about the geode’s glow, about the ifs and maybes of its healing pulse. The price tag, pegged to a ledger that travels as much as the rifle itself, shifts with stock and season, shifting from a modest sum to something rarer when the earth-signs flare in a storm. A buyer’s promise—an escort at the next dawn through the foothills, or a retrieval of a missing mapped sigil—can be as valuable as any coin here, and the seller at Saddlebag Exchange knows that value well. Caravans crossing the low passes speak in the same tremor of respect when they see the Rifle resting by a campfire as dawn breaks. It is carried not only for its fire but for its memory: of earth’s patience, of a Norn gunsmith’s careful hands, and of the healers who trust a well-aimed shot to guide them back to the circle of the living. The Mending Norn Rifle of Earth endures as a witness to that faith, a long, steady breath in a world that never stops moving.