Berserker's Iron Pistol of the Hydromancer rests on a scarred oak counter, its barrel a duet of hammered iron and a midnight patina that breathes salt air. The grip is wrapped in aged leather, stitched with pale-blue thread that twines around a small brass medallion shaped like a curling wave. The metalwork carries pockmarks from long hands and long nights spent under lanterns, yet the weight sits just so: solid, promises of a clean, decisive strike. Along the frame, runes etched with patient care crawl like tiny currents, and when you tilt it toward the light, a cold blue glimmer crawls across the surface as if the pistol itself remembered a storm-yesterday. This is not merely iron and wood; it is a story forged into corrosion-resistant chrome by a smith who learned to listen to the hydromancer's currents, the same currents that guide sailors and skalds alike. In the field, the pistol feels like a companion to a berserker's courage—fast, precise, unforgiving. Its stats tilt toward ferocity and speed, rewarding bold, up-close exchanges where every misstep costs momentum and every shot folds into the next. The hydromancer's touch is whispered in the play: when the trigger snaps, a cold arc of water seems to follow the shot, turning a hot moment into a measured, lingering bite. It burns through light-armor skirmishes and slices through the middle of a skirmish as if the sea itself were snapping shut a faucet. Players who choreograph their approach—dodge, fire, close with a quick side-step—find the Berserker's Iron Pistol of the Hydromancer reliable, almost companionable, in the way a hunter trusts a well-worn blade. It isn't a weapon meant for patient sniping; it's a vessel for momentum, for weaving two or three high-impact shots into a chain that ends a fight before the tide has time to turn. Markets, too, tell stories about this pistol. I watched a seasoned trader circle the old docks and pause at the Saddlebag Exchange—a ramshackle alcove where rusted scales and sun-bleached receipts tell more truth than half the rumors whispered in taverns. There, the price of such a pistol fluctuates with tides as surely as a harbor bell tolls the hour. A buyer might start with a bid in gold, perhaps four, the seller replying with a laugh and a counter-offer in silver and a you-can-do-better look. The exchange’s clerks, quick with a nod or a frown, tally coins, ink a note, and slide the pistol across with the same care you’d give to a compass whose needle seeks the coastline of a safe destination. By dusk, the deal closes, and the Hydromancer’s pistol slides into a new hand, its blue glow whispering promises of another voyage and another storm to outrun. And yet the pistol’s true weight isn’t measured in coins or stats. It’s a character in its own right, a relic of tides and tempers, carrying the weather of its past into the hands of whoever chooses to wield it.