Cleric's Iron Pistol

Cleric's Iron Pistol rests on a scarred oak bar, its barrel a lined cylinder of dark iron, the finish hammered to a soft pewter glow. The iron is cool to the touch, with a quilted grip wrapped in leather dyed the color of dried blood and ash, stitched by careful hands that once mended cassocks and chain. Along the spine run a line of sigils—little crosses, suns, and a leaning wheel—that catch the light in micro-flashes, as if the pistol itself holds its breath. The metal bears chafed edges where it has seen rain and rain again, and the wood beneath is lightly greased so the weapon never sticks when blood and dust rise in a skirmish. The overall silhouette is compact, almost ceremonial, as though a field hospital had folded its banner into a weapon and sent it to the front. The lore tucked into those engravings speaks of a covenant between healers who tempered iron in sacred fires and smiths who understood courage as both shield and spear. Some tales whisper that those sigils once glowed with a pale radiance when kept in the light of a chapel window, a reminder that mercy can arrive with precision, not merely with prayer. In the hands of a rider or a courier, the Cleric's Iron Pistol becomes part of a larger story, a portable piece of the healing economy that threads through patrols, auctions, and the quiet exchanges at dawn outside the city gates. Its uses are modest in number but strong in consequence: a pistol designed not to overwhelm, but to puncture through a moment of doubt, to split the noise of battle with a measured report, and to link a wounded partner back to the living world with a quiet pulse of energy that travels on a narrow beam of light. The weapon’s fame has grown not from roaring damage numbers but from the way it integrates with a healer’s discipline—the way a signal flare might be paired with a bandage, turning a single shot into a reminder that mercy and fire can walk together. The weapon, in the end, aims not only at enemies but at the very idea that healing and harm must be distinct—and yet can share the same breath. Stretching beyond the counter and the camp, the Cleric’s Iron Pistol—glinting, patient, and steady—reminds every traveler that even a weapon can be a keeper of vows, a reminder that every shot carries a story and every story deserves a reply. On the road, merchants nod when they spot it because its lore travels ahead of it. A cleric may pass by, trading a vial of tincture for a pistol with a history, while a young recruit traces the sigils with a fingertip, imagining the prayers those signs once whispered. The gun is heavier with memory than metal, and that weight keeps footsteps measured, choices deliberate, and the next encounter charged with the possibility that mercy and iron will fight side by side—without contradiction, only harmony.