Cleric's Iron Pistol of the Hydromancer

Cleric's Iron Pistol of the Hydromancer rests on the desk like a small relic dredged from a riverbed, its barrel a slate-gray mass crowned with faint, fluorescent runes that glow faintly in damp air. The steel is dense and cold, a touch that bites at the fingertips, with grooves carved along the top in the shape of curling tides. The grip is wrapped in worn leather the color of riverstone, stitched with copper thread that catches the lamplight in sparks of orange. A small aquamarine inlay sits where the grip meets the frame, catching sundrops of light and refracting them into miniature rainbows that vanish when you blink. The trigger guard hums with a quiet resonance, as if the device holds a memory of storms, and the butt bears a seal: a stylized wave cradling a droplet, the heraldry of a hydromancer’s covenant long tied to city wells and flooded courtyards. Its lore is not a tidy shelf of dates and names but a river’s story told in metal. They say the pistol was forged by clerics who learned to bend the water that feeds the city, tempering iron with a discipline that favors restraint over flash. In times of drought, the Hydromancers whispered prayers to the river’s edge, and the weapon’s sigils glowed sharper, as if the water itself lent strength to the iron. In flood, the same sigils softened the metal’s edge by a fraction, allowing the wielder to channel the torrent in a controlled, almost surgical spray. The Cleric’s Iron Pistol never pretends to win a fight by raw power; it wins by guiding a current, shaping spray, and turning fear into a shield for those who stand closest to the breach. In practical terms, the pistol is a tool of precision and protection. It isn’t a mere pistol so much as a focus for hydrokinetic energy—an ally to healers who must push back a line of poison mist or cleanse the area of lingering mists that sap courage. When wielded by a practiced hand, it discharges a narrow jet of condensed water that can interrupt stances, dampen flames, or coax a healing stream to widen its reach. The effect is less about raw damage and more about control: a battlefield where every drop of rain matters, where a single well-aimed ripple can spare a comrade a harsher fate. The market, of course, keeps its own tides. I followed a rumor to Saddlebag Exchange, where traders whisper over coins and fables alike. The cleric’s pistol traded hands there with a steady rustle of fabric and leather, the price hovering between cautious eight and ambitious twelve gold, depending on memory, provenance, and whether the tide favored the buyer that morning. It’s a relic that earns more than its weight in metal: a narrative piece that barters for trust and a promise that, in the right moment, water will find the path it seeks. As I left the stall with the pistol tucked beneath my cloak, rain began to fall in lazy rings across the cobbles. The city’s rivers drummed against the walls, and I understood why this iron thing mattered: not simply to end fights, but to remind the citizenry that even metal can learn to listen to a river, to bend toward mercy when the storm comes.