Carrion Tribal Rifle of Rage

Carrion Tribal Rifle of Rage gleams in an iron-red patina, its stock carved from weathered bone and wrapped in sinew-twisted leather. The barrel is slender, longer than a typical rifle, with glyphs etched along the steel that catch the light as if alive. A feathery plume of ash-black wood sits above the sights, and a row of small crimson beads sways from the trigger guard, tapping in time with the heartbeat of the holder. The grip carries a texture that drips with history, rough to the touch yet surprisingly comforting, like leather that has learned every war it’s walked through. When you lift it, the weapon feels lighter than its weight, as though rage itself lifts your arm for a moment, guiding your aim with stubborn gravity. The finish wears a weathered sheen, pocked where rain and smeared mud have kissed the metal, and around the muzzle you can see a faint ring of dried crimson, as if the mouth of the gun has tasted more battles than most mortals dare remember. Its lore is not tidy myth but a map left by those who walked between caravans and cemeteries: a rifle forged by a tribal smith who traded carrion charms for steel, a weapon meant to harness the quick, hungry rage of the hunt. The tribe sang to it while it cooled, speaking of loyalty, of alliances born in dust and bone, and of the moment when a single shot could turn the tide of a chase. Some talk of a spirit trapped in the metal, a wary guardian that nudges the hunter toward precision when the heat of anger blazes in the chest. It’s said the wood remembers footprints—those of prey and pursuer alike—and the glyphs glow faintly when the weapon reawakens in the presence of danger. In the field, the Carrion Tribal Rifle of Rage is more than ornament. Its shots cut through light armor with a brutal, clean crack, then leave a lingering wound that bleeds beyond the moment of impact, as if the rifle has brewed a small storm in the body of its target. Practitioners report that the weapon’s energy swells with the wielder’s temper, sharpening aim and quickening the release when a hunter has learned to breathe with the weapon rather than against it. Carved beads shimmer when the gun is in motion, a reminder that rage, like friendship, travels as a shared currency among survivors. On the market, such a rarity travels slowly, traded with care and opinion rather than speed. I watched a trestle skewer and a clerk whisper of its price, and the name Saddlebag Exchange drifted into the conversation, a signal that the rifle would not be rushed to the first buyer but offered to someone who understands its story, value, and consequence. A price settled in the careful balance of gold and patience, a number not merely of coins but of risk, choice, and the right partner to carry the weapon forward into the next chase. Its story continues.