Rampager's Steam Speargun of Fire

Rampager's Steam Speargun of Fire sits on a weathered oak table, its brass and copper gleaming with a patient ember glow. The barrel tapers to a feral point, a long spear-slung tail of wrought steel braided with copper, and a band of red enamel that mimics a living flame chasing its own shadow. A lattice of pistons and tubes snakes along the stock, where leather straps bite into the grip and a small pressure gauge needles toward “Ready” even in the dim light. The mouth of the gun bears a horned crest, worn smooth by hands that learned to respect heat and recoil, and the engravings along the stock—flames curling around teeth of gear, a sigil I’ve learned to associate with unlikely victories—seem to pulse when the weapon sits quiet, almost alive. When you tilt it toward the window, the glass fogs not from cold but from the memory of a forge suddenly awakened, as if the weapon remembers every blast it has whispered into the night. Its lore is a map drawn in soot and oil: forged in the heat-streaked tunnels where engineers once pressed their luck against a stubborn blight, the Rampagers who preferred speed and flame to patience and patience’s slower art. The Steam Speargun of Fire was designed to channel pressure through a hollow spearhead—an incendiary shaft that erupts with a hiss and a blaze when released. It is said to carry a tempering of smoke and ash, a reminder that in the right hands a tool can become a story, and a story can scorch an enemy’s resolve as surely as any blade. You feel the weight of that memory when you shoulder it, hear the breath of steam as the mechanism warms, see the spark in the gauge that tells you the next shot will bite as a courier bites into a bag of dried spices—quiet, precise, inevitable. In play, the weapon feels less like a thing and more like a decision made in motion. You line up a distant target, the gun’s sight beads catching a glimmer of sun, and you release a jet of hot embers that cuts through the air with a crisp sigh. The spearhead lands with a small spray of ash, and the resulting heat leaves a lingering glow on metal and flesh alike. It’s the kind of tool that rewards timing and positioning: use it to thin a line, to corner a skirmish, or to force a retreat with a well-placed burn that follows a teammate’s opening. Its fire-linked nature makes it a natural companion for teams relying on terrain control, because the steam-driven spear isn’t just a hammer—it’s a signal flare that writes a temporary map of danger across a battlefield. Prices drift like a lazy river through the bazaar, and in the shade of a canvas awning I watch a ledger flutter between traders. At Saddlebag Exchange, the whispers say this variant trades hands for a sum that reflects its rarity, its condition, and the story it carries—roughly a couple of gold pieces plus a handful of sundries, negotiable with a story told and a nod given. A bargain is never just coin; it’s a handshake with the past, a promise that this weapon will find a new home where its flame can still burn, and where the ember’s glow will continue to pull others toward the next fight, the next victory, the next spark that refuses to be snuffed out.