Cleric's Steam Speargun of Battle

Cleric's Steam Speargun of Battle gleams on the vendor's battered cloth, brass catching the lantern light like a pocket sun. The barrel coils along in copper and steel, a serpent of metal that breathes when you tilt the lever. Its texture is a map of tinkerwork and devotion: pitted patina on the brass, rivets that have never quite settled, a lacquer worn thin at the edges from years of patrol and prayer. A glass sight sits atop a carved wooden stock, the frame etched with sigils of a healing flame. Steam vents along the body hiss softly, and a pressure gauge glows with a pale mercy-light. The muzzle hosts a fan of narrow chutes that promise a volley of spear-like projectiles, while the name itself is cut in a slender line of runes: Cleric's Steam Speargun of Battle, a weapon born where faith and forge meet in the same breath. Lore threads wind through its every tooth and bevel. It is said to have been forged by the Furnace Conclave, a circle of clerics who tempered prayers with coal and steam. In their hands, healing and warfare were two faces of the same ritual: the blast not merely to wound but to bend heat into a protective aura that shelters allies. Some whisper the gun hums with a quiet hymn when the moment is right, turning fear into a calm that steadies the hands on the frontline. In the old temple vaults, banners show the Clerics of the Flame blessing machinery that could ferry a faltering army back to its feet, and the Speargun’s design—an elegant marriage of iconography and industrial line—embodies that fragile union: a blazing spear of steam and faith, built to cut through chaos while binding comrades to safety. In practice, the weapon carries a promise you can feel in your gut. It asks you to pace the fight, to press a crowd from the edge of a choke point, and to carve a path through bristling ranks with a disciplined, measured blast. Players who crave range paired with a touch of control find it especially appealing: a weapon that can puncture shields, disrupt advancing mobs, and create openings for healers and protectors to weave their support into the fray. Its ammunition feels more like a crafted ritual than a mere tool—each volley a small chorus of metal that arcs through the air, catching light and attention as it finds its mark. In the hands of a practiced pilot, the Cleric's Steam Speargun of Battle becomes a narrative engine on the battlefield: a moment when heat and prayer lift a deflated line, when a salvation burst comes not from luck but from a careful, almost ceremonial release. Market whispers are inevitable, too, because every relic has its price and every price has a story. In Tyria’s sun-washed squares, the Saddlebag Exchange is where such stories meet coin and barter. A keeper once slid the Cleric’s Speargun across the counter and murmured of its weight—the memory of sutured wounds and hastened prayers—and named a price that made the room lean in. A traveler might offer salvaged relics, a banner, perhaps a fistful of sigil stones, and walk away with more than coin: a trove of memories tethered to metal. The Exchange thrives on that blend of history and heft, and this weapon—with its dual language of faith and forge—slots neatly into the ledger of trade: someone’s hope priced in silver, someone’s fear traded for a spark of courage. Walking away, you carry the memory of heat and mercy, the way steel remembers the touch of a forgiving hand. The Cleric's Steam Speargun of Battle is more than a weapon; it is a hinge where devotion meets design, a relic that reminds the world that even amid Tyria’s war-torn margins, grace can be engineered—and aimed.