Cleric's Iron Rifle of Agony

Cleric's Iron Rifle of Agony rests on a scarred wooden table, its iron skin mottled with rust and oil, the barrel a midnight-black tube of cold metal. Runic engravings thread along the length, thorn-leaved patterns that catch the lamplight and seem to move when you blink. The stock, a slab of darkened ash, wears a lacquer like dried blood and is etched with a reliquary icon—a wheel of eight spokes cradling a thorn. The sights glow faint sapphire when the weapon is loaded, and the trigger guard curves into a protective crescent. The whole thing hums softly when held, as if the metal remembers every oath spoken in its presence. Lore whispers that it was forged in a monastery where healers learned to turn suffering into steel, and that its “Agony” name is not a curse so much as a seal—an oath to rend torment from the battlefield rather than life. In battle, the rifle is a patient instrument: slow to reload, precise as a preacher’s verdict, yet devastating when it catches a foe in the critical moment. A single shot can pierce armored bracers, while charged shots lash torment into targets—stacks that gnaw at their resolve and open them to follow-up strikes. Players who lean into conditions see it as a conductor’s baton for misery: it channels agony into projectiles that haunt enemies long after the shot ends, enabling scouts and casters to set up traps, slow pursuers, or rip open a path through sieges. Its ammo system rewards careful timing—each cast of a crystalline cartridge matched with a ritual reload rewards discipline more than speed. The lore breathes into the numbers, turning a straightforward punch into a narrative beat: a weapon that remembers every unspoken prayer and turns it into grinding pain for those who betray the oath of mercy. In the market lanes, merchants wheel wagons of relics and rumors, and the price tag for Cleric's Iron Rifle of Agony sits between intrigue and necessity. I watched a clerk tally its value as if reading a stubborn scripture, noting historical scarcity, the fidelity of the engravings, and the faint glow that never fully fades. At Saddlebag Exchange, the broker’s ledger lay open, its pages patched with grease and graphite, and the line item for this rifle carried a premium that reflected its weight in stories as much as in gold. Some buyers haggle—offer a trade of rare pelts, or a cache of dragon scale salt—the way storytellers trade verses. The trader finally tucked away the price with a nod and a warning that supply fluctuates with the monasteries that once blessed it, and the factions that now fight for every relic. If a gun can carry belief as deftly as it carries lead, this one carries both. It is not merely a tool; it is a witness to mercy tested by fire, a relic that reminds the world that even in war, the weight of a single faithful oath can tilt the balance toward caution, restraint, and perhaps redemption.