Cleric's Steam Speargun of Water

The Cleric's Steam Speargun of Water gleams with a patina of rain and factory brass, resting on a velvet-lined shelf. Its barrel coils like a serpent of burnished copper, a series of delicate engravings running along the length—tiny rivers, tidal waves, and a skull ringed by runes that glow softly when moisture is thick in the air. The stock is inlaid with pale blue wood that seems to drink light, and the whole thing hums with a faint, perpetual hiss, as if the steam itself is a living thing waiting for a prayer to be spoken. When you hold it, the weight shifts like a memory, balanced for a hunter of both land and sea, with a trigger that feels like the grip of a cautious priest's hand and a handle wrapped in water-streaked leather. The mouth of the barrel bears a carved sigil of Tides, and a small gauge on its flank ticks gently, counting breaths of damp air as if it measures whether mercy or punishment is coming. The lore whispered by river priests says this weapon was forged at the confluence of a storm-washed temple and a foundry that speaks to the pressure of faith—steam drawn from sacred channels, water coaxed into a spear, then wrapped in a veil of vapor so it cuts through both mist and malice. In the field, its uses are as flexible as the tides: you can unleash a swift jet of water that shoves foes back, or call forth a shield of cooling mist that patches up bruised allies, and in calmer moments, the gun can discharge a sharp, crystalline spike of liquid that shatters on impact, leaving a little rain in the air as a reminder of the price of violence. It’s a weapon that belongs to a cadre who walk between prayer and practicality, and that delicate balance gives the item a sense of purpose beyond mere DPS—this is something that would be trusted at a vigil, and then dreaded when the flood gates open. You see, the Cleric's Steam Speargun of Water is less a tool and more a story—one you carry into a skirmish like a damp rosary, a way to remind yourself that water is both life and weapon, that steam can be a veil or a blade depending on the hand that wields it. Of course, such rarities do travel through the markets, and the tangle of dealers and dreamers is never far away. I passed a stall that boasted its wares in the Saddlebag Exchange, where a clerk with weathered gloves traded stories for price: a gold or two here, a few silver there, and always the quiet rumor that this item might save a life or end one, depending on the next gust of wind. In price and legend, the cleric’s gift enduring—not merely bought, but earned, as the world learns to listen to the sigh of steam and the whisper of water. It remains a beacon for those mending harm with mercy.