Carrion Legionnaire Speargun of Vision

Carrion Legionnaire Speargun of Vision rests on a scarred oak table, its barrel a skeletal blend of bone-white piping bound with frayed copper rivets. The wood grip is wrapped in weathered leather, the kind that remembers river ferries and midnight scavenges, and along the length run carved sigils that look like dried blood etched into lockstep alignment. The weapon’s most arresting feature is the circular sight set into a copper ring near the muzzle—a small lens that glints with a pale green glow, as if a distant lantern caresses the steel every time you dare to breathe. The surface is pocked with age, pitted from salt and rain, yet the craftsmanship threads through, sturdy as a promise. The spearhead itself gleams faintly with rust-colored patina, jagged teeth catching the light in a way that makes the room feel suddenly colder, as if the weapon belonged to a night parade of the dead. There’s a whisper of lore in the way the sigils coil around the stock, a reminder that this is not merely hardware but a relic bound to a lineage of carrion legionnaires who marched through fevers and fields to keep a fragile line standing. They spoke of a vision-seer who bound a fragment of foresight into a weapon meant to pierce more than flesh—into the fog that clings to combat itself. And when the Vision enchantment hums to life, the world seems to tilt just enough for an instant: silhouettes sharpen, outlines of hidden foes flicker into existence, and the air carries a trace of old battlefields where the living and the dead once argued over the next turn of fate. It is the kind of artifact that makes a hunter feel as if the past has leaned over their shoulder, nudging them toward the correct angle or the quiet aside to avoid a trap. In practice, the speargun’s presence feels like a quiet tutor in the heat of skirmish. Its shots are precise enough to threaten armored carrion skirmishers, and the Vision lens gives a rare edge when pockets of stealth or necromantic trickery swirl nearby. You learn to time your pull so the faint glow lines up with a target’s weakness, to let the weapon’s breath guide your aim rather than muscle alone. It invites a hunter to think in layers—the moment of sight, the moment of strike, the memory of other battles fought with the same weapon when the campfires have gone cold and the stories stay warm. Markets never forget such relics, either. In the crowded stalls near Saddlebag Exchange, I watched a veteran trader argue to a young mercenary about the price of memory itself. He claimed the Speargun of Vision could fetch a tidy sum—enough silver to feed a caravan for weeks, enough to secure a rider’s gear for a new season—if the buyer could prove they understood its patience. A solemn gesture and a quiet nod later, a price was named, tempered with tales of road-worn hands and the way the Vision can turn luck in a moment of crisis. The item found its new bearer that day, a careful balance of fear and longing, like any story worth telling in a market full of muttered bargains and bright-eyed promises.