Cleric's Iron Rifle of Perception

Cleric's Iron Rifle of Perception rests on the worn table like an artifact that chose you first. Its barrel is a deep, almost merciless iron, cool to the touch and bearing a gloss that speaks of countless nights spent under lamps and prayer. The stock is a patchwork of tempered wood and riveted iron plates, a map of scars and refinements, with ivory inlays that trace sigils of an old order. The muzzle catches the light with a quiet blue-green patina, as if it remembers moonlit vigils and the soft hiss of incense. Along the grip runs a strand of small beads—wood and bone—tied with careful knots, each bead a memory, each knot a promise. Carved along the butt is the rifle’s name, Cleric’s Iron Rifle of Perception, a title that feels earned rather than given, as if the weapon itself has learned to see more than a typical soldier ever could. Lore threads bind it to a fragile history: the Iron forges were never designed to be flashy, but to reveal what would otherwise remain hidden. It is whispered that the rifle descended from a caravan of healers who traded their craft for a few stubborn truths, and that a cloistered smith tempered it under the gaze of a moon-watching sentinel. In the days when smoke hung heavy over battle-worn streets, a healer-turned-warden used this very gun to pierce the fog of war, guiding scouts through the thicket of deceit and retreat. Some say the Perception in its name isn’t merely about sight, but about truth—an edge that cuts through misdirection, revealing ambushers behind leaves, misaligned shields, or sanctified illusions that hide as much as they reveal. When you cradle it, you feel the weight of those stories settling into your bones, urging you to remember that every shot is a vote for clarity. In practice, the rifle becomes part of a larger narrative on the field. It rewards patience and restraint, letting a vanguard or recon-heavy build pick out targets once the dust has settled and the map of threats becomes legible. Its enhanced accuracy through misdirection and smoke isn’t flashy; it’s purposeful. A sniper’s eye, trained hunter’s instinct, and cleric’s steadiness all converge in a single, measured pull of the trigger. It doesn’t just shoot enemies; it exposes the hidden, it punctures the veil of feints, and it favors those who speak softly while the world shouts around them. The Perception rune-line makes a point of granting a glimpse beyond concealment, turning fog, shadows, and tactical feints into information the wearer can act on, and in the right hands it becomes less a weapon and more a compass. The market breathes around it in a salty, practical way. I found the Cleric’s Iron Rifle of Perception in a crowded stall near the Saddlebag Exchange, where traders shout over the ringing of coin and the clatter of wagons. The clerk weighed it on a battered scale and named a price that felt fair but not generous, a reflection of supply meeting desire. Negotiations—soft words, quick glances, and a few traded trinkets—flickered like candlelight until a curious buyer settled on a deal that felt right to both sides. The exchange of hands, the creak of leather, and the approving nod of a witness marked not merely a sale but an admission: this rifle belongs to a story bigger than any single hunter.