Carrion Flame Pistol of Energy

Carrion Flame Pistol of Energy sits on the table, its barrel a dark, soot-mottled steel that drinks the light and returns only a sly glow. The grip is wrapped in weathered leather, stiff with use, and the engravings along the cylinder resemble curling embers and sigils of a long-dead forge. A thin rim of heat shivers along the muzzle, as if the weapon remembers every shot it has fired, every life it indirectly touched. The metal wears a life of battles: scorch scars, a patina of ash, and a small dragon’s-head emblem pressed into the side. Turn the pistol over in your palm and you can feel the energy humming through the grip, a dry warmth that travels into your bones when you cock it. The cartridge chamber glints with a faint green core, a dying ember ready to flare. The lore says it was forged in a necromancer’s workshop, bound to a restless flame, and that “Carrion” in its name whispers of unwaking corpses drawn to the glow of living heat. In those tales, the weapon is less a tool and more a traveler: it carries the memory of a battlefield and spits out stories as quickly as it does bolts. When you actually use it in the field, the Carrion Flame Pistol of Energy feels like a small sun in your hand. It shoots quick, precise bursts that slice through light armor and leave behind a trail of ash and heat. The projectiles are not mere bullets; they are sparks that lick at armor and fray nerves, a reminder that energy can be stolen from a foe and redirected into a brighter, crueler flame. For an adventurer who threads stealth with expeditions, it becomes a hinge weapon—fast enough for skirmishes, potent enough to tip the balance when a caravan is ambushed or a necrotic warden closes in. It is a rarity with a price, yes, but also a badge of experience—the kind of pistol that makes a storyteller pause and say, “This one has memory.” I found it circulating through the stalls of Saddlebag Exchange, a marketplace where rusty trinkets and rare relics drift in from all corners of the world. The keeper’s stall smells of oiled metal and rain, and he told me the pistol has crossed many hands—adventurers, smugglers, scholars—each adding a notch to its legend. The price moved like the wind, a whisper of silver one day, a thicker demand the next, depending on whispers of a new shipment or the return of a familiar hunter who once chased carrion in the night. I left with a license of awe and a small stack of stories, the pistol tucked under my coat, the glow still warm against my ribs. In the end, the Carrion Flame Pistol of Energy isn’t just a weapon; it’s a rumor you can hold, a beacon for those who walk through ash toward a brighter, dangerous dawn. Its glow never fully fades, even as the market quiets and the night settles.