Cleric's Iron Rifle

Cleric's Iron Rifle sits on a scarred oak table, the barrel a cool, graphite gray and subtly pitted from decades of field use. Its finish is a whisper of oil and patina, the kind that catches the light in a lazy, almost reluctant gleam. Along the underside a braided seam of bronze inlay winds its way, etched with runes that glow a pale blue when the moon rides high. The stock is a heavy dark wood, polished by hands that trusted it as much as their prayers, with a wrap of worn leather binding the grip and a scratch or two that tells of skirmishes survived. The receiver bears a shield-shaped insignia—the cleric’s crest, a cross framed by the petals of a lotus—marking its origin among healers who believed mercy could be delivered with precise, controlled force. The barrel remains long and deliberate, not made for reckless flair but for patient aim; lift it and the weapon seems to settle into your shoulder like a quiet oath. In the stories whispered along caravan trails, this rifle is said to have been forged in the same furnaces that tempered the orders of mercy. It moved with a cadre of healers into ruined sanctuaries, where the mournful cries of the wounded rose with the embers of long-faded banners. Some say the runic bronze carries a memory of prayers once uttered over men who clung to life by the thread of a well-placed shot. Others insist the weapon chose its master as much as the master chose it, choosing those whose hands learned to cradle not just healing, but the responsibility that comes with delivering it through fire and iron. The lore threads through the present like a seam in a quilt—quiet, persistent, and capable of turning the tide when the melee thins and fear begins to echo through shield walls. Gameplay-wise, it’s a weapon that rewards patience and restraint. The Cleric’s Iron Rifle excels at long-range precision, letting a poised hand strip a shield from a wary frontline or disrupt an enemy’s advance before the melee closes. It’s the kind of tool that makes a healer feel like more than a shield: a beacon that can tilt momentum by thinning the ranks of risk ahead of the next healing wave. When paired with supportive stances or restorative chronomancy—whatever the keeper of the order prefers—the rifle’s measured shots become a rhythm that steadies the team. And in moments when the arc of a siege scene shifts from crowd control to decisive strike, that enduring pull of inevitability is the weapon’s signature. Market whispers trail after it as well as moonlight on steel. Traders speak of the weapon’s value not just in gold, but in the trust it carries—the story of its maker, the lineage of its bearer, and the quiet confidence it gives a commander on the field. In Saddlebag Exchange, the chatter around an item like this grows into a careful bargaining wind: a price that reflects its rarity, its history, and the quiet belief that a single well-placed shot can save a life when it matters most. If you listen closely, you can hear the rustle of coin and cloth as a buyer and seller settle on a fair mark, with the old weapon slipping once again into a new chapter of service.