Berserker's Iron Pistol of Hobbling

Berserker's Iron Pistol of Hobbling gleams on the stall's amber light, the barrel dark as a storm-cloud and wrapped in bands of iron that bite into the palm with a cool, purposeful weight. The grip is wrapped in oiled leather, sun-worn and smooth from years of grip and hurried reloads, the letters of the weapon’s name faintly burned into the underside where a finger would rest. A thin rune traces the trigger guard, catching the glow of a lantern and giving the impression that the pistol is listening, waiting for a charge to spark and a target to betray. The metal itself has a story: not merely forged iron, but tempered in the fires of a long-vanished forge-ward, where masters whispered to the steel until it learned to answer with a measured, decisive report. Its lore is not a tale of glory alone but of cautious mercy and brutal necessity. They say the pistol was forged for a Berserker, a hunter who learned to temper fury with restraint, a paradox etched into the iron where the runes align with the heartbeats of those who wield it. The Hobbling in its name hints at a purpose beyond pure damage—a slow, measured constraint. When the hammer falls and the shot lands, the air seems to constrict around the target; movement falters, a stiffening of limbs as if the very momentum of a sprinting enemy gets tangled in the pistol’s quiet enchantment. It isn’t a weapon that shouts its dominance; it speaks in the language of pauses and breathless seconds, buying space for a shield to turn, a comrade to press, a flank to be closed. In practical terms, the pistol is a companion to skirmishers and frontline escorts who prize precision over spectacle. A reliable, heavy-hitting option for puncturing a rush, delivering a carefully aimed blast that buys a moment for teammates to reassemble a line or break a pursuit. In the right hands, its slow-dance with a target’s momentum can transform a chaotic retreat into a controlled retreat, a rallying cry into a calculated advance. It rewards patience—the calm, patient pull of the trigger, the knowledge of when to chain a second shot into a more decisive moment. It’s a weapon that respects the ebb and flow of battle, a reminder that sometimes the strongest move is the one that buys breathing room for the group to regroup and strike anew. Market chatter around the pistol moves through the city like a wind-raked rumor. At Saddlebag Exchange, where weathered traders hawk wares from creaking shelves and sun-browned crates, the Berserker’s Iron Pistol of Hobbling circulates in whispers and wary glances. A fair price is spoken in terms of gold and stories—roughly a few gold with room for bargaining—enough to deter the impulse buyers and attract those who know a weapon’s true weight lies not in its heft but in the quiet dependability of what it can unexpectedly do when the moment calls. A buyer might walk away with more than a count of coins, leaving with a tale of the road that led them to this particular pistol, and a promise to keep its runes honest and its heavy promise true. On the street at dusk, the pistol’s silhouette becomes more than iron and trigger; it becomes a hinge in the night’s turning. A reminder that weapons carry memory, and that sometimes the quietest shot is the one that changes the course of a day, a village, and the arc of a journey yet unwritten.