Strong Iron Rifle of Air

Strong Iron Rifle of Air rests on a peg in a dim shop, its barrel a long, straight tube of iron that wears a quiet, pitted patina. The stock is walnut, lacquered to a satin sheen, with grain that curls like wind-tossed ribbons. Brass fittings catch the lamp light and a small sigil—an open wing traced in fine runes—lurks above the trigger guard. The grip is wrapped in worn leather, smooth from hands that have learned this weapon's balance. When you lift it, the weight settles into your forearms; the trigger guard curves away like a bow, and you can hear a dry whisper of air along the barrel, as if the rifle itself is listening for a bargain. The inscription on the bolster—Strong, with a suffix of Air—speaks of more than toughness: a pact with the wind, a belief that steel can ride the weather rather than fight it. In gameplay terms, the rifle earns a place in the trenches of a field beside engineers and rangers. Its air-imbued shots feel lighter than iron would suggest, finding purchase at mid-range where enemies hide behind dust and brush. The Air suffix hints at wind-driven behavior: projectiles ride a little gust, bending around cover, or delivering a knockback that scatters skirmishers into the dust. For scouts, the rifle is a reliable companion when map-reading becomes a test of patience—the kind of weapon that rewards timing, not brute force. The right hands can thread shots through narrow openings, ping distant targets, and buy precious seconds for a march or a retreat. It is not the flashiest instrument on the shelf, but in the right hands it becomes steady, a quiet ally that turns weather into an advantage and a routine patrol into a measured, wind-steered pursuit. Prices drift like a breeze in the river market, where traders flip coins with a flick of the wrist and a story to tell. I watched a buyer haggle near the stalls as a hawker laid the Strong Iron Rifle of Air on a cloth and let the light trace its sigil. The tag was penned in careful hand, the ledger noting the long chain of possible trades—leathers, ore, a few scraps of salvaged alloy—that made it feel less like a purchase and more like a pledge of future favors. The Saddlebag Exchange, that well-worn hub of barter, always makes a neat, practical argument: a traveler trades a day’s rations and a makeshift map for something that will keep him alive through a sudden squall. On this rifle, a sigh of wind seems to carry its price as well as its value, and for the right rider it lands in a saddlebag just as the storm begins to brew.