The Mighty Steam Speargun sits heavy in the palm, its brass barrel glinting like a captured sun and the wood stock worn smooth by tides of travel. Copper pipes run along the receiver, a lattice of rivets glinting with oil, and a glass sight tube traces a faint green line toward the target. The mouth of the barrel yawns with a hiss when the chamber primes, and a spiral spring winds itself back like a patient engine ready to sing. Carved runes along the stock tell a small saga of a tinker's guild and a stubborn sea captain who swore steam could outpace a storm. The texture is a tapestry of wear: lacquer worn thin where hands grip, brass cooled to a satin patina, and the wood still smelling faintly of resin and rain. In the stories that precede its use, the spear gun is a link between shipyard whispers and caravan routes, a tool that turns tidewater into trail and chaos into order. On the battlefield it is less a bludgeon and more a patient hunter, firing a steam-impelled harpoon that cuts through armor with a whooshing arc and leaves a scorched wake that stings legs and lungs alike. If you time the pressurized bursts with a hunter’s focus, the shot can pin a sprinting foe to the stones or snap a skiff of foes into confusion. Its real power, though, lies in how it invites a plan, a chain of moves that feels like weaving a tide with a single measured pull. Snag a target with the harpoon and you can reel them into the line of fire or pin them against a cover wall while your allies slip forward. The gun’s endurance is a living thing, requiring careful maintenance and the odd infusion of coal ash or humid oil to keep the seals quiet and the tick of the engine faithful. For a scavenger who walks along mangrove keys and sunken hulls, the Mighty Steam Speargun becomes a signature, a way to say you were there when the current turned and the river of battles moved. Prices drift in the market like steam on a cold morning, and that is where Saddlebag Exchange shows its weathered face—hands under bandanas, counting coins, trading in stories as much as metal. I watched a trader sketch a price in gold and iron at Saddlebag Exchange, the way the sun stitched the edges of a rain-soaked banner, and I bought the Mighty Steam Speargun for a fair sum—two gold coins plus a salvaged compass that shivered with a marine chill. As I hefted it, the harbor air smelled of copper and brine, and I felt the weight of the world tilt toward the next tidal fight in a long, unfolding chapter. Some nights I polish the bore until the brass glows like heated honey, listening to the steam sigh back into itself, and I tell the gun its own quiet origin story. It knows the sea and still remembers its name.