Cleric's Iron Pistol of Energy

Cleric's Iron Pistol of Energy gleams with a weathered iron patina, the barrel a slender tube of cooled thunder, etched with runic sigils that glow a pale azure whenever the weapon hums to life. The grip is bound in cracked leather, seams oiled slick by years of use, and a brass trigger guard arcs over knurled metal fingers that have learned to wait for the moment a life depends on precision. Along the underside runs a copper coil, its wraps dark as a winter rail, and a small crystal inset behind the hammer pulses with a soft blue light, like a heartbeat in reverse. The finish carries nicks from caravan scuffs and the fingerprints of clerics who once pressed the pistol against a shrine's cold stone, hoping the metal would temper their nerves as much as their aim. In the lore that threads through market stalls and temple halls, this pistol was born in the dim glow of the Lumenward Monastery, where healing magic and disciplined artillery learned to work in tandem. The clerics there believed energy could be kept in balance like a held breath: you drew it from ley lines, coaxed it through iron, then loosed it as a precise, clean flash rather than a raw blast. So the weapon’s name is not just a label but a pledge—to deliver energy with grace, to puncture the ash-blue fog that guards fragile reliquaries, to safeguard those who carry the weight of fragile hopes. When the pistol fires, the air seems to snap with a small arc of amber sparks before the blue beam takes shape, a line of light that threads through wind and dust, delivering a measured impact that feels almost ceremonial. In this world, it’s a weapon that rewards patient hands and careful timing. A quick, pistol-fire mode punctures shields and can strip armor, while a charged shot consolidates energy for a longer, devastating burn that can disrupt a guardian’s wards or push back a pack of marauders guarding a supply line. In a world where clerics walk at the edge of battle and blessing and bullet must share the same breath, the Cleric’s Iron Pistol of Energy becomes more than a tool; it’s a companion on long patrols, a reminder that healing and harm can negotiate a truce if wielded with discipline. On the market, its rarity stirs talks among caravans and collectors alike. Prices drift and shift with the tides of supply, and seasoned traders whisper of Saddlebag Exchange as a fair gauge of value—an honest listing that reflects a pistol’s faith as much as its fire. A note of blue ink marks the latest bid: a price that could tempt a student of theology and a trader’s daughter both, if they dare to trust that the firearm’s quiet pulse will keep them safe through the night. Some evenings the pistol sits back on the table, just metal but memory of a vow kept and a path yet walked, its glow inviting hope.