Rampager's Iron Pistol of Hobbling

Rampager's Iron Pistol of Hobbling rests cool in the hand: a stout, unpolished barrel of iron, its surface pocked by hammer marks and patinated with soot from long nights by the campfire. The grip is wrapped in torn leather, slick with oil and sweat, and the entire piece smells faintly of coal dust and old battles. Along the spine copper runes arc in a slow, careful design, and the hammer bears a heraldic crest—two crossed blades beneath a prowling wolf—whispering of mercenary bands that once depended on its bite. The trigger guard hosts a tiny hobbling sigil, a spiral that glints whenever drawn, promising that a single shot can slow more than just a stride. When fired, the pistol's report is crisp, the muzzle flash brief but bright in the dusk. A hit does more than wound; it drags the target's feet with a breath of frost and a handful of seconds of slowed movement. Fighters quickly learn to pair the pistol with a follow-up glance or a leash of arrows, catching a fleeing scout in a blink and letting a pursuer stumble in the dust. It isn't the loudest weapon in the caravan, but it shapes the dance of a skirmish: hit, hold, retreat, and regroup. In the world’s memory, Rampager's gear were favored by light skirmishers who turned every corner with a plan and a partner, bending space and tempo to their advantage. The Hobbling enchantment is said to have been woven by guild runemasters who walked the road between the camps, binding movement to steel with careful patience. Some tell of raids where a pistol-wielder held a holdfast long enough for the rest of the group to slip past, while others remember the weapon's soft, reliable pull in close-quarters as a guard's best friend. Some traders even whisper that a rare batch carried a hidden engraving that glowed faintly when used in rain, a signal to trusted partners. On a windy afternoon along the river market, Saddlebag Exchange hums with brass and leather. A grizzled trader patted a display of pistols and recited stories that sounded like old campfire songs. A buyer with coins jingling in a pocket asked about the Hobbling pistol, and the dealer tipped his hat toward the shelf; the sign bore the weapon's name, price chalked on a leather tag, and a warranty of performance. The price drifted with demand and condition, but the going tone was clear: these pistols are not throwaways, they are tools for a careful person who knows how to pace a fight. In Saddlebag Exchange, you can read a market’s pulse—rare items hide behind modest tags, and a stray rust spot can shave a few silvers off or a full gold on a better piece. For the clans and caravans, the Rampager's Iron Pistol of Hobbling remains a reminder that speed can be controlled, that a moment's hesitation is enough to tilt a battle, and that sometimes the quietest shot carries the loudest story. Its weight and scent linger.