Carrion Legionnaire Speargun of Blood

The Carrion Legionnaire Speargun of Blood rests on a weathered display table, its barrel a dark, oil-slick sheen that catches the lamplight with a sly gleam. The stock is wrapped in cracked leather, deep scarlet dye bleeding into the grain like spilled ink, while brass fittings catch every flicker of flame and cast thin gold halos on the surrounding dust. The head of the spear itself juts forward, a sharpened bone tapering to a barbed point, carved with sigils that resemble carrion birds in flight—black silhouettes set against crimson runes. The whole thing smells faintly of iron and old rain, with a bite of resin from the grip that tells you this is meant to be held tight and trusted in the heat of conflict. When you run a gloved finger along the haft, the texture shifts from rough-kissed leather to the cool, almost whisper-thin smoothness of a weapon that has learned a battlefield’s secrets. It feels older than the seller’s ledger could confirm, as if the blood-soaked myths of the Carrion Legion had seeped into its steel and bone, binding the gun to the memory of every legate who once stood to face the living dead. The lore is not shy about what it promises. Forged for the Carrion Legionnaire, a regiment that walked the line between necromantic cruelty and disciplined warfare, the speargun of blood is said to drink the life from its targets, channeling a portion of that vitality back into its bearer. In daylight you might hear the faint sigh of the weapon when it’s handled by a true master—a sound like a hollow reed exhaling after a long march. In darkness you sense the weight of the debt it carries: every shot a pledge to the fallen, every recharge a quiet bargain with the living. It is the kind of relic that makes you choose your enemies with care, for the gun’s temper grows warmer in the presence of true malice and cooler when faced with mercy. In the right hands, it becomes more than metal and bone; it becomes a conduit for the battlefield’s blood-soaked memory, a voice that speaks in the language of wound and will. In practice, those who wield it find it more than a simple ranged weapon. Its bolts bite with a precision that seems almost ceremonial, abrading into armor and then drawing strength from the life force of each struck foe. The user’s vitality is sharpened as the weapon bleeds enemies dry, a delicate balance that rewards patient play and careful positioning. It is the kind of tool that turns skirmishes into a quiet negotiation—one where the chest tightens with danger, and every successful shot tightens the bond between bearer and relic. Veterans tell the tale as one of moral testing as well as mastery: the spear-gun’s true test lies not in how loudly you roar, but in how your choices echo through the ruin-streaked streets where the Carrion Legion once trampled. Market whispering accompanies the find. A weary dealer at Saddlebag Exchange, hair braided with copper coins and stories, named a fair price in sober coins and traded opinions about who could truly tame such power. The exchange itself hums with the same weathered poetry as the weapon—trinkets, scars, and memories shifting hands under a chorus of bargaining, where a relic like this finds its next chapter in the palm of someone who respects the weight of what they carry. And so the Carrion Legionnaire Speargun of Blood passes from one chapter to the next, carrying not just a name, but the burden and promise of every blood-sailed battle it has ever survived.