Carrion Legionnaire Speargun of Accuracy

Carrion Legionnaire Speargun of Accuracy lies on the scarred wooden table, its barrel a weathered brass tube etched with delicate bone-white runes. The stock is wrapped in cracked leather, the grip worn smooth as river stone by so many hands that once carried it into dusk-lit skirmishes. Along the muzzle there are tiny teeth-like notches—a nod to carrion legionnaires who outran their foes with patient, ghostly precision. The name itself is carved in a careful script, as if the gun has learned to speak only through the metal: Carrion Legionnaire Speargun of Accuracy, a paradox of deathly stillness and pointed intention. Its lore threads back to sieges where undead regiments held the shoreline like a rusted tide. Carved sigils along the frame tell of a marksman from a fallen legion who reputedly trained by moonlight, using the weapon to silence sentries from out of sight. They say the 'Accuracy' in its title was earned the night a storm tore through the ramparts and the gun's aim seemed to bend the sea air itself, finding weak points others would miss. When the living retreated, the captured relics passed through the hands of traders and scavengers, each adding a breath of rumor to its legend. On the field, the Carrion Legionnaire Speargun of Accuracy feels different—more deliberate than the average engine of war. The harpoon-launch mechanism stays true under pressure, and the sights align with an almost uncanny steadiness, as if a whisper of that moonlit marksman's patience clings to the barrel. In the right hands, it becomes a tool for peering through cover, punching through light armor, and pinning enemies long enough for a companion to close the gap. It isn't flashy, and that's its strength: in the chaos of a corridor ambush or a cliff-side skirmish, its rhythm is predictable, letting you string together shots that feel less lucky and more earned. You learn to anticipate the recoil, to pace your breath, to time the next trigger pull with the swing of an opponent's shield. It rewards craft more than brute luck, a small heroic moment among many. Markets like Saddlebag Exchange carry its price in the currency of memories as much as coin. A well-preserved exemplar can fetch a tidy sum—often a few gold if the engraving of the carrion sigils remains sharp; a dented piece with a rough grip sells for much less, maybe a handful of silver. The vendor, eyes gleaming with a mix of greed and reverence, will spin you a tale about the gun's last owner—a veteran who walked with the dead as if they were old comrades. In such stalls, it isn't just steel and wood being traded; it's history with a price tag. Back in the world outside the market, walkers of the marshlands tell the same story: that every shoot with this speargun marks a new page in a broader history—the legions that fell to rise again in memory, and the survivors who learned to live with the pain of those old battles. The Carrion Legionnaire Speargun of Accuracy isn't merely a weapon; it's a hinge between past miseries and present choices, a quiet reminder that precision can still carve clarity from the murk. Stories endure.