Honed Iron Pistol of Hobbling

The Honed Iron Pistol of Hobbling gleams under a nervous lamplight, its barrel a precise cylinder of cold iron that seems to hum with quiet purpose. The grip is wrapped in worn leather, stitched with copper thread that glints each time the mechanism ticks open. On the sides, tiny engravings—gears, a curled chain, a looping sigil—trace a story of craft and restraint. The metal bears a measured patina, not rust but a careful patina that hints at days spent in damp alleys, passed from hand to hand with whispered bargains. When you lift it, the weight sits balanced as if the pistol had taught itself your own breath, and the trigger’s notch gives a faint, almost apologetic click that promises something more than a simple pop. They say the iron was hammered by a smith who learned patience from a siege engineer, tempered in fire and rain until it refused to spill blood unless it could bend will, not bones. The Hobbling in its name is literal lore: each shot carries a brief, tethered chill that slows the recipient’s motion, a misdirected spark of magic drawn from the same line of runes that once steadied marching regiments. It is not a killer’s instrument, but a negotiator’s ally, a way to create distance when fortune tilts the wrong way. In the ring of the market, the pistol becomes a node in a larger, scarcely spoken narrative. A skirmisher uses it to peel a front line away from a healer, a striker to foil a bold advance, a scout to seal an escape route with a careful step back. Its weight nudges you toward restraint; its discipline rewards patience more than brute courage. The Hobbling feature invites players to think beyond raw damage—to time a shot so that a charging foe falters at the moment you need them to, or to hold a doorway clear long enough for comrades to slip through. It’s a tool that asks for a plan, not a whirl of bullets, and that has students of the craft trading stories as much as scores. Prices drift in the daylight of commerce, and it is Saddlebag Exchange that gives you the honest rumor of value. A polished specimen might fetch a few extra coins in a tight market, but the true worth lies in the quiet markets of caravans and whispering couriers; you’ll hear someone mention a price, then watch a buyer nod, respect earned by someone who has learned its rhythm. The pistol’s steel sings when it’s in the right pocket—a reminder that history, like its owner, moves with the stride you choose. On a fogged dawn, I followed a courier's route through a market street where hawk-eyed traders measured courage by how quietly a pistol was carried. The Honed Iron Pistol of Hobbling rested in a saddlebag during the last leg of the day, waiting for a moment when a single, patient click could tilt the balance without firing a single fatal shot. Its legend travels even wider.