Dragonshot

Dragonshot rests on a scarred merchant’s counter, a compact capsule the color of burnished copper, its surface scored with ridges that catch the lamplight and ripple like a dragon’s spine. The texture is cool to the touch at first, then oddly warm, as if a tiny ember breathes within, and along the seam runs a faint, oily sheen that never dries in damp markets. Its ends are capped with pale ceramic, carved runes nibbling at the edge of memory, and a stubborn notch on the mouth hints at a mechanism that once hissed with force. In the market’s glow, the Dragonshot seems to cradle a story in its weight, as if the thing itself could recall a long march through ash-filled plains and a night when the air tasted of old dragonfire. Legends say it is filled with a captured breath of a dragon: not the beast itself, but the memory of flame pressed into glass and metal by smiths of the Ember Quarter. Some tell of a chain of furnaces that glowed like dawn and a wind that carried ash across the docks, shaping Dragonshots into tools for those who hunted or guarded the fragile line where flame meets steel. In quieter years the tale softens, yet every practitioner of field skirmish recalls the superstition that a Dragonshot carries more than heat—it carries a promise that a single, well-placed shot can bend a moment, tipping the balance of a siege or a stand at a ruined outpost. In play, the Dragonshot is not merely a cartridge but a vow. When fired, it ruptures into a seething tongue of flame that threads through armor and cloth, forcing foes to fumble their formation and giving scouts a split second to press forward or fall back. It is the kind of tool that shapes a fight long after the smoke clears: a lingering burn that gnaws at attention, a heat bloom that marks the edge of a breach, a signal that the battlefield has just shifted its center of gravity. Veterans speak of its usefulness at chokepoints—doorways, stairwells, the narrow causeways where a line can be run into a wall of heat and fear—yet it is just as effective when paired with planning, discipline, and a keen sense of when to speak softly and let the flame do the loud work. On the road, markets carry more than wares; they carry the currents of demand and memory. In a shaded stall near the busy lanes, a vendor will tap a crate and talk in low, careful tones about price, trade, and the weight of a memory sold. Saddlebag Exchange is a name that comes up often, a ledger of mismatched pockets and bright bargains; a seasoned dealer might offer Dragonshots in bundles, priced in silver and barter, sometimes with a map or a talisman thrown in to sweeten the deal. The hum of the exchange is the world’s purse speaking: a reminder that items like Dragonshot are as much about who carries them as what they do, about the stories you gather when you press the trigger and the stories you leave behind when you walk away.