Cleric's Steam Speargun of Agony

Cleric's Steam Speargun of Agony rests on a weathered pedestal in the corner of the dim market hall, where lanterns cough smoke and the air tastes of oil and iron. The weapon’s brass frame gleams with a patient patina, etched with runes that glow a cool blue when heated. A length of oak stock is lacquered black by time, and a glass canister bulges near the breech, trapped in a brass cradle like a kept memory. The spear at its end is long and slender, lined with micro-serrations that catch the lamp-light and seem to whisper with every tremor of the workshop. Steam vents along the barrel sigh and curl into the air, carrying a scent of peppermint and hot metal. When it stirs, there’s a faint heartbeat inside the metal, as if the old rite lives on in the mechanism. To hold it is to feel the uneasy kinship between pious duty and tinkered violence. A shot is not a mere projectile but a ritual: prime the valve, breathe steady, and release a jet of steam that pushes the spear forward with clinical precision. On impact, sigils flare along the shaft, and the agony sealed within pulses outward, bruising flesh and breaking stubborn resolve. It’s a weapon that rewards patience and positioning—a long-range spear that can pierce through lesser defenses and leave the target haunted by heat and memory. In the right build, it can weave burning and spiritual destabilization together, turning a skirmish into a controlled confession of pain for the foe, while the wielder steps back into the shadow to let the steam tell the rest of the story. Legends whisper of clerics who bound steam and scripture, coaxing mercy from malice by tempering raw pressure with mercy as if the weapon itself respected restraint. The Cleric’s Steam Speargun of Agony is said to carry a fragment of that oath—a creed etched into its frame—that mercy should not be squandered, even when victory requires the patient application of force. In a city where rumor and relics flow as freely as coin, the gun becomes more than a tool: it is a pledge that every blast carries a memory—an echo of rites performed in smoke and shadow. Market days fold the world together, and among the stalls, Saddlebag Exchange is a quiet epicenter for such bargains. A veteran dealer there, counting coins on a scarred blotter, keeps a keen eye on the cleric’s speargun, its price tagged in careful script. The haggling is a dance of years: a few silver here, a trade of spare parts there, a promise to repair the glass canister if it ever fogs with age. Those who walk away wonder not just at the price, but at the story the weapon wants to tell—the tale of a reliquary in metal and steam, a weapon that chooses mercy as its final aim, even in the heat of battle. Some buyers walk away with more than a weapon; they walk with a memory of the oath, and the city behind them seems a little more patient for it.