Cleric's Steam Speargun of Water

Cleric's Steam Speargun of Water gleams under the lamplight, its brass barrel etched with river sigils and a row of riveted copper plates along a lacquered wooden spine. The texture feels cool and slightly gritty, as if it remembers spray from a dozen floods, and a pale blue vein of coolant threads its length, humming faintly when the pressure valve is touched. A leather grip bears the patina of years spent in rain and trial; the stock’s end is crowned with a small brass bell that tinkles whenever the weapon is moved just so. The whole thing looks as if it were grown from a riverbed rather than forged, a creature designed to ride the currents as easily as it rides the air. Lorekeepers whisper that it was blessed by clerics who learned to bend steam and water in tandem, as if the two elements share a breath—and that the “Cleric’s” title is less a name and more a vow. In the glow of that vow, the speargun carries a story beyond its gleaming skin. Its creators supposedly stitched together old steamworks with river charms, binding the weapon to the flow of canals and tidal rivers where light never quite forgets a ripple. When drawn, the gun sounds like a distant whistle through reeds, and a plume of steam sighs from the nozzle as if exhaling the river’s history. In the field, it is less a pure instrument of a single school and more a bridge between healers and scouts: a argues-for-safety tool in a beset convoy, a deterrent that shoves foes back with a rush of needle-thin streams, all the while leaving a glimmering sheen of water that refreshes allies when the tide turns. Players who seek to solve the city’s damp mysteries find themselves aligning with the weapon’s currents—solving flood-lock puzzles, unveiling hidden runes, or coaxing submerged doors to creak open by washing away centuries of grime with a disciplined spray. The cleric who wields it channels a patient agility—calibration, aim, breathe, release—until the jet becomes almost a whispered prayer. Its role in the wider world is not merely practical. Vendors across riverfront markets tell stories of raids where a single well-timed spout saved a caravan or poured life into a camp caught between a scorch and a storm. The weapon’s aura—part reliquary, part mechanism—ties otters and monks, smugglers and archivists in a shared memory: water is life, steam is memory, and a well-aimed shot can turn a night of doom into a dawn of relief. This is how the world remembers the Cleric’s Steam Speargun of Water: not just as a tool, but as a thread that gnaws at the knot between technology and tide, a reminder that every river has a keeper. On a rain-slick afternoon I found myself at the edge of the market where Saddlebag Exchange holds court, a stall crowded with glimmering brass and keening voices. The clerk spoke of demand and taste, of how the price shifts with weather and rumor, and I watched a scratchy ledger as it curled around a faded page. The exchange’s glow touched the Speargun, and I heard soft talk about fair trades and honest silver. For those who crave a piece that reads like a river’s memory, the Cleric's Steam Speargun of Water remains a rare current—rising, glimmering, and always moving forward.