Berserker's Steam Speargun of Venom

The Berserker's Steam Speargun of Venom sits on the workbench like a paused storm: brass barrels etched with snarling runes, a pine stock worn smooth from years of clutching in brick-noise nights, and a serpentine coil of copper piping that glints when the lamp catches it just right. The weapon breathes steam in a soft, wheezy sigh, as if it has just been listening to a tall tale and can’t resist telling it back. A glass reservoir glows faintly amber, tied to the barrel with leather straps, its cap sealed with a seal of a snarling berserker. Across the stock are inlaid glyphs that catch the light, echoing the discipline and frenzy of whoever first forged this thing in the heat of siege and the hush after, when stories begin to bite back. Texture is part of its mood. The metal feels cool and heavy to the hand, slick with oil and the patina of long use; the wood bears small nicks from aimless drifts and hurried reloads in rain-soaked courtyards. The venom reservoir, a delicate bulb behind the forward grip, holds a pale-green promise that seems almost to ripple when you breathe near it. The gun’s mouth is a softly snarling maw of steel, with a jagged edge that hints at a blunt, surgical purpose. When you shoulder it, the weight lies with a hunter’s confidence—balanced, precise, and a touch merciless. The name itself is a whisper in the well-oiled cogs of its mechanism: Venom, the bite that speaks long after the scream. Lore threads through the weapon like a stubborn filament in a lamp. Tales tell of Berserker crafters who paired raw ferocity with engineered restraint, a partnership between wild blood and perfected steam. It was said to be born in the shadow of river towns where traders braced against raiders and venomous creatures, where engineers learned to trap a creature’s sting in a bottle and to train the steam to punch through rather than merely hiss. The Berserker's Steam Speargun of Venom became a badge of those who chase glory and risk their own stubborn luck—an instrument designed to unleash a flint-hard strike, then flood the moment with a venomous aftertaste that lingers in both enemy and earth. In practical terms, its value in battle is clear: a ranged weapon that can puncture armor and pepper the field with poison, forcing opponents to retreat from a relentless pressure that is as much tactical as it is punitive. It fires a sequence of darts laced with toxin, each shot stacking pressure on the target while the steam propulsion adds reach and velocity—longer chances to land a decisive hit before the tempo shifts. In larger campaigns, commanders respected its dual nature: the steam-driven scale of range paired with the slow, sinewy creep of venom that erodes defenses over time. It’s not simply a tool but a narrative, a way to tilt a fight in a village square or along a ruined quay. When I found it, the price tag felt part ledger, part legend. I stood at Saddlebag Exchange, where traders lay out glimmering wares as if they were chapters in a shared book. The stall’s keeper slid the gun across the counter with a careful bow of respect and, in a tone meant to be casual but weighted with history, mentioned the going rate: a tidy handful of gold, with room for a tale or two about the weapon’s past. We traded numbers, receipts, and a nod to the old guilds, the kind of negotiation that makes a buyer feel like a guardian of a small, living myth. So the Berserker's Steam Speargun of Venom remains—a relic of craft and courage, a weapon that speaks to the hands that hold it and the road they have traveled. A reminder that in every battle, there is a story waiting to be fired.