Rampager's Steam Speargun of the Hydromancer

Rampager's Steam Speargun of the Hydromancer hums with a dangerous, elegant hiss as brass fittings catch the late sun, a sleek tube of aquamarine-burnished metal bound in riveted copper coils. The stock is wrapped in river-worn leather, darkened and resin-stiffened by years of rain and salt; a carved sigil of a hydromancer, water curling into a sun, rides the barrel like a seal of guardianship. Along the spine runs a narrow channel where steam breathes, pale as fog, and the muzzle wears a small metered vent that ticks out a patient rhythm. A gauge, half-amber glass and brass teeth, clings near the trigger guard, its needle wobbling between ward and warning. The entire weapon feels as if it were grown from a river’s mouth—the way the metal breathes, the way the grip accepts your hand with a fisherman’s familiarity. It is the kind of thing that looks born of tide and noise, a tool that would feel almost ceremonial if not for the way its steam ever so politely insists on being used. Its lore leans toward the Hydromancer’s creed—humility before water’s hidden force, and the belief that pressure, discipline, and current can carry a spear where a blade cannot. The gun’s name carries a rumor of a guild of engineers who apprenticed under river spirits, their work bridging the gap between brass and brine. When a strike of rain presses the throat of a cannel, the speargun seems to wake, as if a trapped tide had learned to point and fire. In quiet harbors and battered outposts, fishermen whisper that the Hydromancer’s blessing is less a spell and more a careful balance—steam to sharpen the breath of the sea, steadiness to keep the aiming true, water to soften and reshape the world’s toughest armors. It’s the kind of artifact that doesn’t just belong to a legend; it quietly invites you to add your own verse. In practice, the Rampager’s Steam Speargun of the Hydromancer feels like a story you tell with your hands. A practiced operator learns to coax a shot that travels with the cadence of a march, then floods a trench of enemies with a glimmering spray that mocks their armor. The steam bite bites deeper on steel, yet the hydromancer current buys you a moment to reposition, to read the battlefield like a rivermist map. It rewards bold, fluid play: a quick scissor of aim, a well-timed vent release, and a torrent that streaks toward a crowded group, turning cover into a liability and exposing weak points with the quiet inevitability of tide meeting shore. It’s not just a weapon; it’s a companion in the sea-lit street fights and the river-worn ruins, a piece of a larger river’s chronicle that keeps moving, even as the next ship comes to dock. The gun, like so many coveted trades, crosses paths with the Saddlebag Exchange, where merchants tell of its price as if it were a tide itself—rising with demand, then receding as newer currents arrive. A few days of brisk trades can push it into the realm of several gold pieces, while a patient hunter might see it dip to a more modest sum when inscriptions fade or when a better offer drifts in on a breezy afternoon. Either way, it’s a rarity that travelers insist was worth the weight of the voyage, a keepsake that makes a harbor feel like a launch point for tomorrow’s storms. In the end, Rampager's Steam Speargun of the Hydromancer remains a conduit—of water, steam, and the stubborn courage of those who would wield it. A weapon that doesn’t merely puncture armor but writes a line in the river’s ledger, the kind of thing that makes a battlefield echo with the memory of a wave just breaking.