Cleric's Iron Rifle

Cleric's Iron Rifle rests on the table—barrel cold as winter iron, etched runes crawling along its length like frost on a cathedral window. The stock is lacquered walnut, scarred by field use, and the trigger guard gleams with a pale pewter sheen. Its grip is wrapped in stitched white leather that fits the hand, and a cobalt sigil inlay glows faintly when warding chants awaken. The rifle’s report is a measured whisper, a prayer made audible, the plume of smoke curling upward like an offering left at a shrine. Historically, the Cleric who blessed this iron would tell you it was tempered in quiet sanctuaries, where patient hands coaxed balance from chaos. Its feed mechanism is generous, its bolt travel precise, the kind of weapon that rewards discipline over impulse. In the hands of a skirmisher who leans into support, the rifle doesn't simply strip armor or puncture armor; it is a scalpel that preserves the moment, thinning threats enough to let a frontline push forward. In practice, it shines most in careful engagements. The user takes their time, slips to the flank, and lets the weapon's patient punch find its mark while teammates reposition. It isn't the tool that shatters a crowd; it is the weapon that preserves the moment. Market whispers carry its name through tucked-away stalls. A vendor known as Saddlebag Exchange trades in stories as much as steel, and today the rifle sits on a pegboard bright with oil-stained price tags. The clerk whispers that a fair price includes not just iron and wood but the promise of a future sanctified by careful hands and shared risk. Buyers haggle, trade notes, and part with coin or bartered goods, drawn by the idea that this weapon can keep a traveling troop intact without surrendering its humanity. By dusk the weapon has found a new caretaker, but the tale remains—a hinge between craft and creed, a reminder that in a world where every shot can write a fate, mercy and precision walk together. In the field, a veteran recalls how the rifle saved a blinded scout by timing a precise shot that dropped a marauder before it could trap them. The weapon's balance let the scout regain a grip on a narrow ledge, and the moment earned two old friends a vow to hold their line. The Cleric's Iron Rifle becomes more than steel and design; it is a totem for communities that endure sieges, a reminder that defense can be merciful. When a night wind rolls through a ruined gate, its runes brighten for a heartbeat, as if the weapon remembers prayers spoken aloud in a monastery hall. Keepers of the piece speak of care: wiping the barrel with a blessed cloth, relacquering the stock, refreshing the sigil inlay when it dulls. It travels in a simple leather case, a reminder that power travels best when humility rides with it. The rifle remains a witness to a place where mercy and marksmanship walk together.