Strong Steam Speargun

The Strong Steam Speargun rests on a salted crate, its copper barrel gleaming under flickering lantern light, a band of rivets running along its midsection and a leather-wrapped grip that smells faintly of oil and brass. Its stock is a patchwork of ashwood and lacquer, carved with runes that glint when steam hums through the chamber, and a glass gauge shows pressure, amber needle drifting like a cautious heartbeat. A spearhead forged in a storm of gears sits at the business end, teeth along the edge catching the lamplight, ready to bite through water or air. Locals swear it was born in a shipyard that never slept, a collaboration between a stubborn machinist and a diver who preferred harpoons to ash. The weapon’s cycle is a small sun rising inside a barrel: charge a container, vent a hiss, and send a spear forward with a whoosh that sounds like distant thunder. It feels heavier in the hand than its weight would imply, as if the metal remembers every tide it ever watched. In daylight markets, I’ve watched captains study the gauge, then set their jaws and trade a finger-wlick of courage for a chance to wield it. In the field, the Strong Steam Speargun is less a tool and more a compromise between range and resilience. It rewards patience, the kind of measured breath you take before stepping aboard a deck full of spray and clamor. It lets a marksman threaten skiffs and smugglers at midshore distances, then switch to a shorter, more brutal spray when the fight climbs onto the dock. It’s not about flashy trick shots; it’s about steady control, about placing a waiting spear where it will do most harm to a shielded foe or a reckless marauder with too much pride and too little air. When the job ends, the story of the gun keeps going in the market stalls and ledger lines. Its price has traveled as far as the sea itself, with the Saddlebag Exchange listing it near five gold coins in fair condition, perhaps a touch more for a pristine specimen or one still humming with heat. I watched a rough trader haggle, smoke curling from his pipe, and walk away with a smile as if he’d just bought himself a quiet ally. I bartered resin and two old compass roses, and the deal closed with the kind of rustle and nod that only weapons with a history can earn. Back in the boat, I listened to the hiss as I eased the lever, feeling the gun wake a memory of storms I never rode alone. In that moment, the Strong Steam Speargun wasn’t just steel and steam; it was a portable harbor, a pledge that some stories, once sparked, never truly fade. I tucked the gun beneath a waterproof tarp and listened to the harbor’s hymn, knowing tomorrow would bring a tide of customers, questions, and credits. Some stories, like this weapon, simply survive, while others learn to sing with the wave.