Cleric's Steam Speargun of Accuracy

Cleric's Steam Speargun of Accuracy catches the late sun, brass and copper gleaming along a slender length, its barrel etched with delicate sigils that glow a pale, reverent blue when the pressure gauge ticks. The grip is wrapped in worn leather, dented from years of steady hands steadying a line of fire more ceremonial than combative, a small cross-hatch of rivets running like a spine along the stock. Its spearhead sits like a captive dawn—a steel harpoon housed in a glassy shard of guided light—while a compact steam engine hums within the aft housing, whispering promises to anyone listening closely enough to hear steam and prayer in the same breath. The texture is a feast for the fingers, from the smoothness of the brass to the cool bite of the glass, and the whole thing carries a scent of oil and old parchment, as if it had walked out of a chapel library into the forge room and never quite left either behind. Lorekeepers murmur that the device was born from a union of healing rites and engineers’ stubborn faith in efficiency, a hybrid child of brass-sealed vows and the stubborn insistence that mercy can be accelerated when the world is fastest. In the world where such a weapon exists, its significance unfolds as a quiet legend in the heat of battle. Its true power is not simply in how far it can fire or how hard the spear pierces armor, but in how it compels a shooter to measure every breath before the release. You learn to place a shot with the same patience you would use to lay a benediction, counting the ticks of the gauge as if they were offered prayers. The Accuracies whispered into its engravings respond to discipline: a steadier hand, a truer aim, a shot that travels with a straightness you can feel in your teeth. The steam mechanism adds a brief, almost holy acceleration—one that carries the spear through gaps you’d never dare to shoot through with a simpler tool. It asks you to combine careful positioning with exact timing, to treat each encounter as a small ritual rather than a noisy skirmish. It becomes part of a broader story about mercy delivered with precision: a healer who chooses the right moment to fire, a guardian who knows when to hold and when to strike, a world where even war is tempered by craft and care. Market whispers creep into the tale as well, because every traveler’s rumor has a price tag somewhere along the road. At Saddlebag Exchange, where caravans pause long enough to trade stories and wares, the Cleric's Steam Speargun of Accuracy can be priced not just by its metal and mechanism but by the glint in the sigils and the history etched into its body. A well-traveled buyer might wheel and deal until the price skims the gold coins, while a curator of relics might pay more for a pristine, glow-bright specimen bound to healers rather than combatants. Either way, the item travels with a narrative of its own—part reliquary, part tool, forever straddling the line between sanctified function and engineered speed. And so it remains, waiting for the right hand to tell its next chapter.