Legionnaire Sidearm

Legionnaire Sidearm sits on the table, its barrel catching the lamplight with a cold, pewter gleam. The steel is lacquered in a deep blue-black that seems to drink the glow, with ridges of brass winding along the frame like a measured heartbeat. The grip is wrapped in sting-black leather, scarred by years of use, and a thin inlay of crimson thread traces the edge where thumb meets tang. A crest—two entwined wings over a starburst—is etched into the hilt, almost shy, as if guarding a hidden oath. When you tilt it, you notice the runes along the slide, tiny sigils of the Legion, polished until they sing when the pistol is drawn in a ceremonial light. It feels heavier than it looks, a crafted instrument as much as a badge, a pistol designed to cut cloth and fear with the same care. Lore has it that this sidearm was forged in the twilight between campaigns—a weapon issued to the Legionnaires who kept the lines, not for glory but for the slow, relentless work of keeping order. The metal bears traces of Orr’s old blacksmithing, tempered with a more modern discipline, as if two generations of craft had a quiet argument over the same piece. Some scholars insist the Legionnaire Sidearm carries a memory of Quiet Moments and Consecrated Duty, a reminder that every trigger pull is a line in a larger ledger of duty. In the market, rumors flutter like moths around a lamp: that it was blessed in a ceremony, that it responds to the owner’s breath, that it favors the disciplined hand. In play, the Legionnaire Sidearm is not merely a weapon but a narrative device. Its shots are precise, a patient silence before the storm; reloads feel almost ceremonial, giving the user a tempo that suits careful poking through armored lines rather than reckless spray. Players who lean into precision builds or stealthy, disciplined play find the pistol a cooperative partner to their story, turning engagements into chapters rather than skirmishes. You carry it as a line of dialogue—what the character believes about order, duty, and the cost of power. It’s the sort of sidearm that makes a town guard pause and consider the minute, almost ritual, moments between pull and impact. The price, of course, travels with a tale. In Divinity’s Reach’s back-streets and river-down markets, the Saddlebag Exchange is where such legends exchange hands, where a collector might part with a gleaming stack of gold for a well-loved relic or a blitz of mithril-threaded coins. Traders haggle over the margins as if drafting a treaty, and the Legionnaire Sidearm slides across the counter with a quiet click that sounds like a verdict. If you listen closely, the weapon seems to murmur back: a promise kept, a battle remembered, a future earned one measured shot at a time. In quieter corners, veterans speak of its recoil as a teacher, reminding young hands that power must be tempered by patience and that each victory carries its burden.