Cleric's Iron Rifle

Cleric's Iron Rifle rests on a worn wooden table, its iron barrel gleaming with a dull, weathered temper that seems almost ceremonial. The stock is a slab of dark, lacquered wood, scarred by years of use yet smooth to the touch where the hands seek steadiness. A brass band seals the fore-end, catching the light with a quiet, patient gleam, while the grip is wrapped in leather that has grown soft from countless journeys. On the side, a shallow engraving threads along the metal—a sigil of a robed healer with a feathered quill, ringed by tiny runes that catch the candlelight and flicker like a heartbeat. A glass vial sits in a shallow recess near the trigger guard, sealed with a stopper and a smear of old oil, as if the weapon once held a small, lingering blessing. The whole thing carries the scent of oil, iron, and something herbal—the faint memory of field hospitals and hurried prayers whispered between prayers and gunfire. Its appearance is a map of its past, every nick and dent a witness to hardship and hope. The iron has darkened with a blue-black patina in places, as if weather itself refused to forget the weapon’s service. The stock bears a pale streak from a blade-wound of a different era, and the sigil has been worn thin by handling, yet remains discernible to those who know what to look for. When it catches the light just right, the runes along the barrel seem to pulse with a quiet, steady glow, as if the weapon remembers the alchemical warmth of holy oil and the steady hands that once steadied it in the darkest hours. Lore tells of a chain of healers who carried this rifle across rough terrain to keep caravans safe from marauders and corrupted magic. It was never merely a tool of defense but a symbol of trust between protectors and their charges. Each owner added a mark to the stock, a small story: a tally of miles traveled, a patch of field herbs pressed into the leather, a note scratched in a corner about a child’s smile after a skirmish was won. As a result, Cleric's Iron Rifle feels less like a weapon and more like a stolen piece of a moving tapestry—the kind of artifact that binds disparate people through shared peril and stubborn mercy. In play, its presence signals more than a long shot or a precise target—it's a lifeline for those who guard fragile sanctuaries and fragile lives. The rifle’s craft invites careful, patient use; it rewards planning, steadiness, and a cool head in the middle of chaos. Its lore turns every skirmish into a chapter of a broader story: a healer’s order, a caravan’s fragile hope, a world where mercy must be defended with both faith and fire. Prices drift and re-drift in the markets, and that’s where Saddlebag Exchange becomes a living part of the tale. Traders speak in soft breaths about the rifle’s value, trading coins and components the way travelers swap stories. Some days a cleric might swap this iron for herbs and a precautionary charm; on others, it changes hands for a small stash of rare metals and a promise to mend a wounded road. The exchange itself feels like an echo of the weapon’s journey—a caravan’s pulse recorded in coins and camaraderie, a reminder that the blade is only as strong as the hands that wield it, and the hands that keep faith with it.