Rampager's Iron Rifle of Earth

Rampager's Iron Rifle of Earth sits on a sun-beaten worktable, its barrel a long, straight sigh of hammered iron that catches the light like a thin blade of dusk. The stock is warm walnut, worn smooth by years of braced shoulders and hurried re-aims, with runic scratches carved deep into the grain to map rivers of earthen memory. Brass bands circle the breech, catching a pale green glow whenever the earth sigil within stirs, and a small bead of brass at the front sight gleams with stubborn resolve. The leather sling is cracked and supple in places, stiff in others, as if it has learned the weight of many campaigns. When you lift it, the rifle feels heavy with intention, as if the weapon remembers each siege it witnessed. Forged in the workshops where Rampagers hammered their craft into stubborn stone, the Iron Rifle of Earth carries a pedigree of upheaval and containment. The Rampager's name is pressed into the trigger guard, a promise that the gun was built to punish through walls and guard lines. The Earth suffix ties the barrel to tremors beneath the ground, to tunnels widened by mule carts and whispered warnings. In legend, a marksman carried a version of this rifle through a grain-yard siege, fires devoted to finding cracks in armor and in the earth itself. Runes along the stock hum faintly when the chamber cools, a reminder that power remembers history. In battle, the rifle becomes a companion for patient skirmishers who measure the fight in breaths rather than bursts. It rewards careful alignment and clean shots, with power that feels steadier than most, as if the earth lends its own momentum to every trigger pull. When paired with Rampager’s gear, it favors those who boast a blend of offense and ferocity—shots that punch through mail and scale a shield with surgical precision, then flow into a second heartbeat of damage as a foe staggers. It shines in long corridors, on cliff-edge ledges, and in the channeled quiet between enemy movements, where a well-placed shot can turn the tide without shouting a single command to the team. In quieter campaigns, it becomes a storyteller's ally, turning mundane patrols into a measured hunt. At the Saddlebag Exchange, where merchants narrate prices the way old sailors spin tales, the Rampager's Iron Rifle of Earth tends to glide between seven and nine gold pieces, more if the Earth sigil glows vividly in the light or if a buyer tires of waiting for luck to guide their aim. A patient buyer can barter down to a fair sum, but the true cost is the memory it whispers—siege tunnels, earth-rumblings, a veteran's last shot saved for the moment when it mattered most. The rifle is more than steel; it is a memory carved into iron, binding stone and will into one stubborn arc, and those who carry it learn to listen for the earth’s reply before they ever squeeze the trigger.