Honed Iron Pistol of Fire

Honed Iron Pistol of Fire gleams with a dull, tempered steel luster, its barrel wrapped in scorch-dark patina that hints at years spent cooling in an ash-streaked forge. The grip is carved from weathered mahogany, stitched with copper thread, each notch worn to fit a single hand. Along the barrel's spine run rune-scarved lines—tiny runes that glimmer when the heat of battle breathes through the metal. At the muzzle, a copper ring glows faintly, and a whisper of ember seems to ride the air as though the gun itself keeps a pocket of flame ready to be coaxed into life. Old smiths will tell you it was forged under a comet’s tail by the Emberwright line, whose hint of frost in iron was burned away to leave something sharp and bright. The lore binds the artifact to both craft and courage: a tool that remembers the smith’s hammer and the hunter’s secrets, a badge of a certain kind of resolve. In the field, the pistol’s fire is not a reckless blaze but a precise bloom. A few measured shots shove a burning mark into plating and mail, corroding attention as heat gnaws at patience. Its embers cling to leather and cloth, forcing a foe to scramble for cover while allies flank on the wings of smoke and ash. Within the game’s world, that tone of craft and heat translates into strategy. The Honed Iron Pistol of Fire is prized for its quick access and the way a tight moment can become a turning point: a rapid two-shot combo to ignite a foe, followed by positional play while the cooldown draws near. In skilled hands, it combos with condition damage—burning, vulnerability, and the way a distant rival will overcommit, thinking a line of fire will finish the job. It rewards a patient hunter who chooses when to draw, when to fire, and how to let the smoke speak for a breath or two before moving again. Markets in the harbor districts remember such pieces by their stories as much as by their metal. It’s not uncommon to hear a merchant comparing prices and tales under a striped awning, and Saddlebag Exchange—a rowdy, crowded stall where traders haggle with coin and reputation—often anchors the deal. I watched a vendor tilt his hat as he laid out a ledger calibrated in silver and ash: the Honed Iron Pistol of Fire could change hands for a tidy sum when dawn light painted the harbor, yet a careful bargaining could land it for less, especially if the buyer carried a few rare cartridges or a crate of smithing scrap. The stall’s clerk whispered that a buyer’s patience matters as much as breath: value grows when the story travels from smith’s bench to battle’s edge. I tucked the pistol away, feeling the weight settle in my palm as the harbor noise pressed in. The pistol isn’t merely steel; it’s memory you can load, a spark you can carry, a small fire that travels toward the horizon.