Berserker's Iron Pistol of Earth

Berserker's Iron Pistol of Earth rests on a scarred oak table, its iron barrel darkened by ash and oil, the rifling along the muzzle catching the light like weathered teeth. The grip is wrapped in two strips of worn leather that have soaked up stories, the surface hammered with copper runes that twist into a motif of stone and cliff-face, and a small emerald set into the trigger guard glints like a tear of forest resin. The weapon gives off a weight that seems to hum with a slow, deliberate heartbeat, as if Earth itself lent steadiness to any trembling hand. The inscription along the barrel—Berserker's Iron Pistol of Earth—reads not as boast but as oath, a promise that fury will be tempered by gravity, that a strike must land where it belongs. In the lore of the smithy days, dwarven forges learned to bind the stubborn calm of the earth with the fierce intent of a berserker. This pistol is said to have been tempered in a cave deep enough to hear the rock breathe, its iron poured with ore from underground veins where earth spirits are thought to sleep. When a wielder fires, the report is clean and heavy, a controlled bell toll that shakes loose dust from the rafters. In combat, the pistol is prized for its reliability in the heat of a skirmish: quick draw, crisp trigger, and a shot that rewards precision over flourish. Paired with a companion pistol, it becomes a heartbeat you can gauge—one-two, steady, then a third that breaks a shielded front and opens a path through the line. The world around it keeps turning, however, and not all of that turning is violent. Merchants pass the weapon from hand to hand, a prize for those who can read the weight of a bargain as clearly as they can read a map. I heard tell of an afternoon street market where a dealer patted the walnut-brown case and spoke softly of the Earth-sigil that surrounds the inscription, a mark that locals say steadies the wind in a storm of arrow and blade. Saddlebag Exchange—the name itself a rumor and a route—listed the pistol with a price tag that reflected its rarity, inviting a measured trade rather than a reckless sprint to gold. The exchange’s stalls hum with talk of condition, provenance, and whether the earth-toned inlays have kept their edge through long nights of travel. So it sits now, in the hand of a veteran who knows both the hush of stone and the roar of a charge. It’s more than iron and wood; it’s a story bound by metal, a tool that keeps time with the pulse of the earth, waiting for the moment when a story, like a line of dust across a sunlit balcony, finally lands in the crosshairs. Some nights, the pistol sits by the window, the moon turning the copper runes to a soft flame, a reminder that power is a responsibility as heavy as the trigger.