Berserker's Steam Speargun of Venom

The Berserker's Steam Speargun of Venom sits on the table like a captured current—brass and mahogany polished to a wet shine, a long barrel etched with runes that flicker faintly when the weapon is warmed by breath and steel. A small glass reservoir runs along the underside, half-full with a pale-green venom that shivers as if alive, its glow pulsing in time with the wearers’ heartbeat. Gears crowd the rear sight, tiny pistons sighing with each breath of steam as copper piping coils along the stock, feeding the venom's bite into every charged shot. The grip is wrapped in stitched bear hide, a reminder of long nights in storm-torn harbors, and the weight sits just so—not too heavy to swing, not so light that it forgets the fear of a close cliff face or an ambush from the smoke. The gun’s surface bears the patina of a dozen campaigns, each dent and scratch telling a different story: a skirmish above the reefs, a raid under a black sky, a bargain struck in a market tent where fear tasted strangely sweet. Lore among the old sea captains says the venom is culled from a viperfish season, trapped at dusk by berserkers who learned to temper rage with patience. They birthed a weapon that could spit iron and venom in the same breath, a weapon that rewards speed but demands restraint—two faces of the same storm. It is not merely a tool of hurt, but a translator between raw fury and calculated harm, a bridge between body and botched fate, as if the gun itself knows when to lash and when to wait for the moment the enemy exposes their own tremor. In the heat of battle, the Berserker’s Steam Speargun of Venom feels less like an instrument and more like a stubborn ally pressing into the shoulder, whispering a promise: strike with ferocity, but never waste a drop. The shot splits the air with a hiss, a spear-like bolt that digs through armor and flesh alike, leaving a poison wake that gnaws at the foe’s vitality. On a well-timed follow-up, the venom’s vials snap shut, the venomed gasses compressing and releasing in a lattice of green light that crawls along the ground, forcing enemies to stumble as they bleed away precious momentum. It rewards risk—scouting, skirmishing, and the brutal joy of closing distance—and, crucially, it rewards restraint, a rare mercy in a world that loves loud endings. Markets outside the lines of battle have their own rituals around such a weapon. In the stalls and tents that remember every great push and every failed retreat, the Berserker’s Steam Speargun of Venom is traded not just for its edges, but for its memory. Traders speak in quick breaths of what a gun will fetch in a season, and in nods that acknowledge the risk of temperamental machinery and the venom’s unpredictable fuse. When the word travels to Saddlebag Exchange, the numbers settle into a rhythm—silver and gold pas de deux, the price shifting with tides, as traders compare notes about reliability, maintenance, and whether the device’s temper matches the operator’s will. The gun becomes more than steel and venom; it is a shared truth among those who barter, fight, and dream of quiet evenings after a storm, when the world forgives a few embers of rage if they burn in the right hands.