Berserker's Steam Speargun of Water

Berserker's Steam Speargun of Water rests on a weathered oak table, its barrel a river-slick blend of dark brass and aquamarine enamel that catches the light like scales on a waking fish. The stock is wrapped in water-stained leather, stitched with copper thread that gleams when the room catches a stray spark, and the grip bears the wear of many duels survived and stories told. The spear-head sits at the business end like a patient whisper, slender and polished to a gleam, while runic sigils along the channel glow faintly whenever a drop of pressure builds within the chamber. Its texture feels cool and deliberate, a weapon meant to be steadied by a palm that knows both steam and tide, and you can hear a soft hiss as the mechanism settles into readiness when you tilt the trigger lightly, inviting a small storm to be born. In practice, the gun is less spectacle and more a river made portable: a steam-assisted harpoon guided by water magic, firing with surprising speed and a spray that dampens the air with a briny scent. The implementation is elegant in its brutality—a balance between heat and hydration, momentum and discipline. When you line up a shot through a rain-wet alley, the water sigils slide along the barrel, coalescing into a torrent that propels the iron spear with a clean arc. Against leather-armored foes, the spear lands with a blunt, cutting impact, then releases a ripple that slows others who press in too close. For the engineer and the scout alike, it offers a rare blend: range, reliability, and the stubborn will of a weapon that drinks steam and spits back a cool, blue mist. Lore has it that berserkers of the great flood prayed to the riverside for favor, and that an old engineer who spoke to tidal spirits bound their vows into the workings of this gun. The Berserker's Steam Speargun of Water feels like a relic and a promise at once—proof that power can be tempered by water, that fury can be directed through a controlled channel, that a single tool can turn the tides in a city built on canals and commerce. I’ve watched traders pass by with glances that know a good bargain when they see one, and the odd old captain who corners the tale with a wink and a wager. Price, as it ages into rumor, moves through stalls like whispers. I found it first at horse-and-stall stalls and lane-side kiosks, until a polite hawker at Saddlebag Exchange greeted me with the gun already wrapped in oiled cloth and a ledger full of bids. The numbers shift with the tide, but the story behind them never did: this is a weapon meant to be used and then passed along, to be entrusted to the next traveler who understands how water can carry a scream as much as it can carry a spear.