Honed Iron Pistol of Fire rests on a splintery display rail, its barrel a midnight-black cylinder etched with tiny runes that glow like coals just kissed by ash. The iron skin is rough and honest, hammered edges catching the light in dull, deliberate facets. A grip wrapped in worn leather bears the scent of rain-soaked roads and traveling merchants, with a copper ferrule catching the flare of torchlight as if a tiny sun had perched there. The inlay along the flank—a slender flame curved around a cog—hums faintly whenever air carries a spark. When drawn from its velvet-lined shadow, the pistol feels surprisingly balanced, as if it were made for quick, decisive sprints rather than long, careful duels. The “of Fire” suffix is not merely a tint; the sigils glow a steady amber when heat gathers in the chamber, and a whispering warmth seems to seep from the barrel when the gun is most alive with intention. Lore ties the piece to a lineage of forge-wrights who fed their flames with old tamarack charcoal and stubborn pride. They spoke of a city where iron sang and the air carried the scent of burnt cedar, where a guildmaster pressed a spark into steel until it remembered what it was meant to do in the hands of a keeper of embers. Some say this pistol was tempered in a siege against a sky-ravaged fortress, where the crackle of fire against stone became a language the weapon learned to speak. The flame sigil is said to be a memory, a quiet chorus that steadies the hand and lends a glimpse of warmth to the eye even in the darkest hours. No grand legend needs to claim it completely; the honest truth sits in the balance of heat and steel, the way a shot can change the course of a night or a patrol. In the world where ships lean against the harbor and markets smell of spice and rain, the Honed Iron Pistol of Fire is prized for its reliability and its bite. Its fire damage cuts clean through the damp air of dawn patrols, and its burning stacks weave a cautious dance with a foe’s defenses, forcing a pause to lick the embers while the hunter lines up the next breath. It’s a weapon that rewards precision and timing—the kind of instrument a steady thief or a clever engineer might cradle as if it were a stubborn old friend. The gun’s charm is not just in the flash but in what it compels others to do: rethink cover, retreat a step, sprint to a safer flank, or gamble a charge in the waning light. On a sunlit corner near the docks, a stall sign reads Saddlebag Exchange in weathered letters, a place where stories and instruments trade hands with the same ease as coins. The vendor sizes up the pistol, lets the sigils breathe, and quotes a price that makes the copper coins in a pocket clink with equal parts hope and doubt. A barter—a map, a few relics snatched from forgotten alleys, a tale of a close call with a lava-lit canyon—and the deal shifts like smoke around a barrel. By dusk, the Honed Iron Pistol of Fire sits again in a traveler’s palm, ready to redefine a night’s near-failure into a story of heat, steel, and a single, well-placed shot.