Cleric's Iron Rifle of the Geomancer

Cleric's Iron Rifle of the Geomancer rests on the pickup of a wooden crate, its barrel gleaming like a blackened spear and the stock carved from ash that has seen a thousand sunrises. The ironwork is heavy and honest, a bruised, soot-streaked surface that catches the light in dull glints. Along the barrel, sigils twist in a restless pattern—geomancer runes pressed into the metal by patient hands, then sealed with a whisper of oil that darkens the grooves with time. A band of leather clamps the grip, worn smooth by countless gloved palms, while the butt bears a shallow channel where a small pale stone sits, a relic of earth’s pulse waiting to be coaxed into life. The rifle wears its purpose like a badge—a cleric’s tool, a healer’s instrument, a soldier’s confidant—each dent and crease telling a different story of field repairs, quiet vigils, and the stubborn endurance of iron. When you lift it, the weight is a memory of farms and forges, of long roads cut through scrubby hills where the ground still remembers the ancient hands that once kneaded it into shape. The finish is matte enough to vanish into shadow, yet when a lamp catches the runes, they glow faintly, as if the earth itself whispered back a consent to be used. The stock bears a faint, almost ceremonial, patina—an amber sheen where the sun would sit for a moment and then move on. It is an artifact that looks at home in a chapel as much as in a field, as if the Geomancer’s creed had steered the craftsman’s hand from the start. Lore insists the Cleric’s Iron Rifle was forged in a cauldron of earth and faith, a collaboration between a healer who believed in mending wounds with stones and a geomancer who heard the ground breathe. Some say the first shot carried a heartbeat of the world—the reverberation of a stone waking from sleep. Others tell of a covenant, a promise that iron would never stray far from those who stood between the living and the ruin, that the weapon would sing when the soil cried out for balance. In the right hands, the rifle doesn’t simply strike; it unsettles the dust, opens a path through rubble, and anchors a retreating squad to a stubborn patch of earth where no oil, no flame, no spell can pry them loose. In the field, its significance unfolds like a map. A shot can pierce a brittle shield or crack a thin crust of rock to drop a pillar in the enemies’ advance, while a careful second use can lay down a veil of earthen energy that slows, roots, or redirects a line of foes. The Geomancer’s influence threads through its mechanics, turning stone into an ally and fear into tempo—charging a rhythm that allies fall into with relief rather than resignation. Market days bring a different color to the tale. At Saddlebag Exchange, a hawker with weathered fingers and a smile that knows the price of patience lays the rifle beside a ledger of coins and promises. The tag is translucent enough to read but heavy enough to demand respect—tens of silver, negotiable, bound to the buyer’s faith in the earth’s mercy. I watched the exchange unfold with a curious hush, the kind that follows a weapon’s verdict: a trade sealed not just by metal and coin, but by the learned patience of a world that refuses to surrender its secrets to haste.