Cleric's Steam Speargun

Cleric's Steam Speargun gleams under the shop’s single lamp, brass patina catching the wavering light as if a small sun trapped in a chest. Its barrel is long and slender, riveted with copper bands that trace a weathered, almost ceremonial pattern. The stock is a dark, oiled wood, worn smooth by hands that once believed control could calm storms; along its spine, sigils—healing sigils, crescent moons, and the simple cross-hatch of a prayer—are carved with quiet reverence. Along the length of the gun, tiny vents breathe out a hiss of steam, like a quiet exhalation from a patient engine. The muzzle flares into a sculpted crown, a reminder of both faith and function, while a pressure gauge above the grip twitches with every pulse of the forge that made it. A leather strap loops from the grip to a curved hook where a spare spear-head waits in a stitched sheath, ready to be swapped in without breaking stride. Lore threads through its brass-and-blooming-haze like steam through pipes. This isn’t merely a weapon; it’s a relic of a forgotten alliance between clerics and engineers—guilded hands that believed faith could fuse with ingenuity. In sanctuaries where oil lamps burned steady and the air smelled of hot metal and resin, a small order trained to bless, recalibrate, and deploy such tools in equal measure. They believed the steam was the breath of a long-dormant furnace-god, waking whenever a moral cause required a precise, careful application of force. When caravans traveled through marshes swarming with vexing specters and mischief-seeking raiders, the Cleric’s Steam Speargun offered more than injury; it offered restraint—a controlled harpoon that could pin a foe without shattering a larger harmony. To hold it is to hear the echo of sermons braided with gears, a reminder that courage often wears goggles and grease as well as courage itself. In the battlefield of this world, the weapon’s charm lies in its versatility and the story it tells. It’s a mid-range tool that rewards patient aim and mechanical rhythm, the kind of rhythm a careful healer-turned-survivor might cultivate: fire a measured harpoon, vent the steam to reset the moment, then exploit the follow-through with a precise second shot. Its harpoon head cuts through armor with a clean, ancient-protection feel, while the steam bursts can disrupt formations and create a momentary lull in a crowd of foes. The clerical influence is audible in every measured action—rehabilitative rather than reckless, precise rather than chaotic—giving the user a sense of purpose that transcends raw damage. It’s the sort of weapon that invites stories after the skirmish, a tale of faith married to craft, of a relic that still believes it can steer a broken day toward mercy and order. Market whispers have their own gravity. In Saddlebag Exchange, the price tag on a Cleric’s Steam Speargun is a soft, brass-edged rumor—often negotiable, always tied to a traveler’s tale. I watched a barter flow between a weathered courier and a dealer who spoke in careful, measured terms, the gun resting between them like a promise and a risk. The vendor noted a starting range in gold, but the true value lived in the exchanges of hands and the shared belief that this relic still carries a pulse. It’s not merely metal and steam; it’s a narrative you can strap to your back and carry into the next dawn.