Cleric's Steam Speargun of Earth

Cleric's Steam Speargun of Earth rests on a pale wooden table, its brass barrel catching the lamplight like a sunlit coin. The barrel is narrow and tapered, etched with stone-gray runes that wind along the metal in a pattern reminiscent of roots sinking into soil. Copper piping snakes from the back, curling into a squat boiler that sighs with a faint, constant hiss, as if the gun itself is listening to the earth’s breathing. The stock is wrapped in cracked leather, dyed a mossy green that has soaked into its grain, and the grip bears the wear of many hands—pilgrim, soldier, tinkerer—each leaving a trace of their own story. A small glass chamber near the breech holds a suspended core of soil, a tiniest world bottled in a greenish glow, which shifts with the shooter’s pulse as though keeping time with the quarry’s heartbeat. When the hammer falls, a plume of steam threads from the vent, and the harpoon tip—dark, barbed, and precisely balanced—slides forward with uncanny grace, as if the weapon itself leans into the earth’s own gravity. The cleric-engineers who once worked from caravan camps and quarry outposts would tell you the Earth in this weapon is not merely a rune’s fancy. They spoke of stone and soil as guardians, of the bedrock that underpins every oath and every oath-breaker’s lie. The Cleric’s Steam Speargun of Earth was forged at the seam where ritual blessing meets practical leverage: a tool to anchor a rite, to pin down a restless tunnel-sprung creature, to haul a fallen idol back from the grave of its own folly. The steam boiler is not just propulsion; it is the earth’s throb made audible—an audible reminder that power, when tempered by care, can be a patient, enduring thing. The runes along the barrel glow with a quiet, earthy light, as if the gun has learned to measure time by the rings of a sapling rather than by a clock. In the field, its usefulness is as tangible as the metal’s cold kiss. A speargun is not a weapon for reckless brawl; it is a disciplined instrument for precise harvests: you shoot a tethered harpoon to pull a stubborn warding rune from a doorway, you puncture a stone-touched guardian and give your allies a window to move, you unleash a steam-flecked jab that unsettles the earth’s own watchers. The “Earth” attribute feels grounded, granting resistance to tremors and a steadiness to shots that would otherwise jitter in chaotic battle. For a party that needs a careful approach to siege, this gun becomes a storyteller’s instrument—one that negotiates with rock and soil as if they are fellow travelers rather than obstacles. Market days in the coastal markets hum with the clamor of bargaining, and the Cleric’s Steam Speargun of Earth earns a steady horse-trade of curiosity. Merchants speak in the same measured tone as the weapon’s balance, noting how the build’s blend of ritual grace and mechanical precision marks it as a rare sort of relic—useful in the moment, and meaningful in the collective memory of those who know the earth’s listening. Saddlebag Exchange, with its stitched-together inventory and traders’ gossip, has seen several bids and counter-bids for pristine examples, the price drifting with the tides—the sort of piece that gleams at dawn and grows heavier in the evening’s memory, priced to reflect both its utility and its lore. When you cradle it, you feel the earth’s patient certainty beneath the steam—the quiet promise that some things in this world endure, even in the loudness of battle.