Cleric's Iron Pistol of Serpent Slaying

Cleric's Iron Pistol of Serpent Slaying rests on a sun-warmed table, its barrel a dull, weathered cylinder that bears the patina of years spent in sun and rain. The iron, hammered and hardened, wears tiny dents like freckles along its length, each a memory from a roadside skirmish or a cautious first shot at dawn. The grip is wrapped in faded leather, smooth from countless travels, and a narrow inlay of pale ivory winds around the back, tracing the image of a serpent coiled in a protective arch. A small sigil—three rings linked by a thread of runes—gleams faintly just above the trigger, as if the weapon itself remembers every oath spoken over it. When you tilt the pistol toward the light, the surface catches a micro-spark of blue-green gleam in the engraved scales, as if the craftsmanship still whispers a blessing to any traveler who dares to take it into the field. The lore that clings to this iron pistol is drawn from a path of clerical guardians who walked trade routes and river bends, keeping watch for venomous serpents that slithered from ruined shrines and overgrown tombs. They believed steel tempered by prayer carries a promise: that metal can stand between the innocent and a sting that turns days into fever. It’s said that the pistol’s first owner, a wayfaring cleric named Ilyra, poured consecrated water over the bore and spoke a vow to end serpents’ terror wherever their shadow fell. Since then, the Cleric’s Iron Pistol has been handed from keeper to keeper—once more a holy tool, now a trusted companion that travels as a marker of trust in the worst districts where the markets hum with suspicion and the night air carries a hiss of venom even before you hear it. In practice, the pistol is more than a relic; it’s a partner in a larger story. When a caravan is beset by spectral heat and winding, venom-fed foes, the weapon’s charge seems to bloom with a pale, quiet light, and each shot feels deliberate—like a whispered prayer that finds its mark. The Serpent Slaying enchantment, etched into the gun’s soul as surely as into its lore, makes shots land with extra certainty on serpent-kind, and a clean hit can strip away some of a foe’s poison, lending the user a moment of mercy and a breath of relief for allies who stand behind them. Players say the weapon transforms a tense moment into a choice: fire quickly to break a coil of snake-demons or pause to aim with the calm conviction of a guardian who has learned to weigh every consequence. Markets add another layer to the tale. On a sun-washed afternoon, a stall at Saddlebag Exchange displayed the pistol with care, the owner speaking softly of rides that could be bought with a treasure this old and true. The price, whispered through fingers and ledger, sits in that twilight space between rare relic and practical armament—enough to turn a prospecting trip into a cautious investment, yet never so much that it breaks the rhythm of a trek. Traders murmur about the pistol’s value, how it shifts hands not just as a weapon, but as a story carried by someone who trusts that a single well-placed shot can alter a village’s fate. So it travels, this iron pistol, through dust and rain and the soft glow of lantern-lit evenings, cradled in the belief that grace and grit can ride together—one steady aim, one vow kept, one serpent’s coil loosened by the care of those who still believe in guardianship.