Berserker's Iron Pistol of the Hydromancer

Berserker's Iron Pistol of the Hydromancer rests heavy in my palm, its iron skin satin-slick with salt and rain, the barrel a dark reed stained by the sea. The grip is wrapped in worn eel-skin that has learned the shape of a stubborn hand, and the engravings along the frame curl like tidal ribbons—waves chasing a jagged, tooth-edged rune, a hydromancer’s sigil pressed into a gleaming aquamarine enamel that catches every glint of lantern light. The trigger bears the soft patina of long usage, as if a thousand storms have tested it and the pistol answered back with a stubborn crack of sound and spray. When you heft it, the weight settles into your bones as if it had been forged to fit a body already half-mermaid and half-brawler, half oathbreaker and half oathkeeper. Lore threads through its iron like the sea through a broken netspring. They say a berserker, blood-and-wlood courage bound to the Hydromancer’s discipline, laid claim to a tempest-wracked forge along the coast and coaxed this pistol from the forge’s roaring heart. The hydromancer’s handprint—faint, almost a whisper—still lingers on the underside, as if the weapon absorbed not just heat but fear and glory in equal measure. In taverns and shipyards, sailors swear the pistol hums when the tide turns, that the water within the barrel murmurs approvingly at bold decisions and harsh fates alike. It isn’t merely a weapon; it is a pledge that rage can be tempered by water, and water, in turn, can be driven into a righteous storm. In the field, the pistol’s significance unfolds with a fluid grace. It rewards aggression with precision, the first shot cutting through the din like a spray of spray and salt, the second releasing a torrent that seems to pull at the air itself. For anyone who walks a knife-edge between force and finesse, Berserker’s Iron Pistol offers a calculable tempo: a quick, merciless opener, then a measured follow-through that lets the hydromancer’s discipline wash over the moment and smooth the rough edges of a fight. The round has a bias toward piercing power, but the enchantment layer adds a shimmer of utility—dousing a threat with a brief veil of water, disrupting a line, buying a breath for a retreat or a regroup. It is the sort of tool that becomes more than weaponry when you let it speak to you between clashes—a partner that teaches restraint even as it demands bold moves. Markets have always been a chorus of stories, and in the dusty aisles of Saddlebag Exchange the pistols that resemble this relic vanish and reappear like ships through fog. A well-kept Berserker’s Iron Pistol of the Hydromancer can command a price that sings in gold—range, provenance, the sigil’s clarity all tipping the scale—yet a seasoned trader will murmur about the pistol’s temper and its thirst for the right hand to guide it. I heard one buyer haggle a tale as he laid coins on the counter: the worth of a weapon is not in the metal alone, but in the courage, tenacity, and rivers of myth it carries into the next skirmish. So it travels—through rain-slick streets, across markets, from harbor to skiff—its story as much a part of the world as the tides themselves. A berserker’s iron, a hydromancer’s breath, a pact forged in steam and bravery, the pistol keeps time with the heartbeat of the coast and the restless drift of those who dare to wield it.