Cleric's Steam Speargun of Air

Cleric's Steam Speargun of Air rests on a weathered oak table, its brass barrel coiled like a sleeping serpent and bright rivets catching the candlelight as if tiny stars had bent to listen. The wooden stock is dark and smooth from years of touch, etched with wind sigils that shimmer faintly when a draft slips through the shop’s shuttered windows. A thin ribbon of blue resin seals the joints, and the air vents along the spine hiss softly when the weapon breathes, as if it were alive enough to sigh. The muzzle wears a precise nozzle with miniature turbines visible inside, a delicate trust between craft and magic, while the leather grip bears the imprint of countless hands—pilgrims, engineers, and clerics alike—each leaving a story in the grain. It looks as if it could slip from the table and vanish into a storm, and perhaps that is precisely its purpose: to walk the line between relic and instrument. Lore centers on its forging in a moment when wind-worshipping clerics and steam engineers found common ground, binding a capricious gust into a weapon that could be aimed, steadied, and trusted. They spoke in dry dialects of pressure and prayer, coaxing a restrained tempest into service without surrendering mercy to malice. It is said the first field test occurred on a rain-washed balcony above a bonded city, where the speargun sang a clean gust that knocked charging foes away while leaving allies to mend and move. Since then, the Cleric's Steam Speargun of Air has traveled with emissaries and scouts, traded between sanctuaries and sanctums, a symbol that technology and spirituality can share breath rather than compete for it. In practical terms, the weapon is a hybrid of restraint and force. Load a measured canister, squeeze the mechanism, and a stream of wind-bladed energy lances outward, carving a path through light armor and heavier plates alike. Its airflow is not merely damage; it disrupts footing, hardens the air around enemies, and creates a pocket of space for a healer to slip through or a companion to break line of sight. The effect, while satisfying in its speed and precision, also flows into the larger story of the world—an old clerical order teaching that mercy can be delivered with a hammer, as long as the hammer is tempered by air and intention. Travelers speak of the gun when the skies darken; some claim a storm follows in its wake, others that a calm settles when it speaks in clear, measured bursts. When I carried it to the bustling harbor market, the Saddlebag Exchange caught the scent of old storms and new questions in equal measure. The stall’s keeper weighed the item with patient hands, tracing the sigils and nodding at the story etched into the stock. The price was formidable, not through greed but through the ledger of voyages that the weapon had already logged in the world’s memory; they offered metal and coin, a fair tally for a relic that might still weather another season’s trial. I left with the sense that this speargun was less a tool than a living record of where faith and invention intersect, a conduit through which the world continues to speak in gusts and whispers, inviting those with courage to listen, and to act.