Cleric's Steam Speargun of Venom

Cleric's Steam Speargun of Venom rests on the table with a quiet, purposeful gleam, its brass barrel catching lantern light as if it were a sunken coin. The stock is wrapped in weathered leather, stitched with copper thread, the texture worn smooth by years of careful handling. Runes along the spine pulse a pale green when the valve is cracked and steam breathes; a slender coil of venom-touched tubing snakes from the chamber like a lifeline. The spearhead sketched at the tip is neither blunt nor brutal but surgical, a needle-sharp edge that glints with a ghostly sheen, hinting at its dual vocation as a healer’s instrument and a hunter’s weapon. The weapon’s body bears lacquered sigils that whisper of sanctity and siege, of clinics tucked behind field rations and battle lines where mercy meets might. It feels alive in the hand, warm from the steam, heavy with purpose, as if the old clerics themselves pressed their prayers into metal and steam for a last, stubborn defense. In the field, the Cleric’s Steam Speargun of Venom speaks its own dialect. A practiced user cranks the valve and a hiss unfurls a narrow bolt coated in venom, the shot riding the air with a soft, oily arc. Enemies blister with Poison, their movements slowed by the alchemical chill, while allies feel a faint glow of healing sigils that ripple along the wielder’s forearm as the gun continues to breathe. It is not merely a tool for damage but a conduit for balance—pulling the wounded back from the edge while sealing off avenues for foes to press forward. The weapon’s lore threads through hospitals and battlefields alike: a relic of clerics who learned to graft mercy to mechanism, to turn the steam of war into a slow-burning cure, a reminder that venom can sometimes be as protective as it is perilous. That tension makes the price a living conversation, a mark of respect and risk. I heard a trader speak of it in a morning stall near the harbor, where the air smelled of brine and hot metal, and a cart full of oddities rolled past with creaking wheels. Saddlebag Exchange, the bell at their counter chiming in the bargain, had run a careful tally on the cleric’s speargun, suggesting a price in the higher ranges of common treasure—enough to make a cautious buyer pause, then grin. A coin or two of silver, a trinket from a distant caravan, and perhaps a service traded later in kind—these were the coins that changed hands for such a artifact, a balance struck between supply and desire in a world that never stops moving. In the end, the Cleric’s Steam Speargun of Venom feels like a paragraph from a larger story—one that begins with a hiss and ends with quiet mercy. A weapon, yes, but also a memory of guilds that stitched healing to hazard, steam to serum, and faith to fire. Ultimately, it remains a beacon for healers in turmoil, a reminder that mercy can weaponize hope.