Mending Einhänder

Mending Einhänder rests in a battered leather case, its barrel a cylinder of dark steel threaded with copper filaments that glow faintly whenever the weapon hums to life. The grip is wrapped in worn hide, patched with pale-blue thread that matches the glow along the runic spine. A single sigil bead sits on the trigger guard, pulsing a soft emerald light like a heartbeat you can feel in your fingertips. The lines carved along the weapon’s length curl into intricate motifs—threads and stitches that look less like decoration and more like a story sewn into metal. Lore whispers that it was tempered by a circle of healers who believed a blade could mend as surely as a bandage, that every strike carried a chance to close a wound in more ways than one. It is said the Einhänder learned your needs as you learned to wield it, replying with a glint of light and a careful, almost reverent, accuracy. In the hands of one who understands its whisper, Mending Einhänder becomes less a weapon and more a companion. When you fire, the shot doesn’t merely bite into armor; it carries a thread of restoration, a miniature sigil of mending that blooms on allies’ skin after a moment’s delay. The glow on the runes intensifies as the weapon’s flow of energy gathers, and with each exchange of volley, a patch of vitality knits itself into the party’s cohesion. It isn’t a miracle, exactly, but a disciplined ritual: the gun’s power gathers through controlled effort, rewarding patience with a shield of time and touch. Some days a shot lends vigor, other days it repairs a shield’s edge, or tightens a misfiring hinge in a siege-engine that would falter without a careful touch. The Einhänder’s true value, those who carry it will tell you, lies in its dual memory—what it has seen on the front lines and what it promises to do when you stand, weapon in hand, beside a comrade who fears the next blow more than the last. The weapon’s presence wove itself into a larger narrative once the city began to crumble under siege and then slowly rebuild, brick by repaired brick. It traveled with scavengers turned medics, with engineers who patched allies as they patched wall-cart armor, and with seasoned veterans who spoke of old wounds and new stitching. A weapon that mends as it battles has a way of becoming a symbol, a reminder that even in war there is care, that repair can come from the most precise, patient intervention. In the right hands, it keeps a frontline intact long enough for hope to arrive, long enough for a healer to take a breath and a plan to take shape. Pricing, when it surfaces in conversation, tends to drift through Saddlebag Exchange like a rumor carried on a breeze. A clean, well-etched Mending Einhänder commands a premium, a proof of its lineage and the care poured into its maintenance. A battle-scarred piece, meanwhile, fetches less, though the stories etched into its worn grip still draw a buyer’s eye. I’ve watched merchants trade tales with gold, the price settling somewhere between “rare and revered” and “usable enough for a second chance.” Either way, the case always seems to note the same truth: this isn’t merely a weapon; it’s a wounded city’s patient, a testament to what stitching can mean when steel learns to listen.