Carrion Tribal Speargun of Rage

The Carrion Tribal Speargun of Rage gleams with a weathered, almost living patina, as if seawater itself had learned to glow. The stock is hewn from driftwood lacquered in resin, smeared with salt and grime, its surface rough enough to bite at the fingertips. Bone beads and rusted copper rivets thread along the grip, catching the light with every micro-movements of the hand that holds it. The barrel is a dark, sinewy column, carved with spirals and carrion glyphs that seem to writhe when you catch them out of the corner of your eye. A length of braided sinew runs from stock to trigger, worn smooth by decades of rough seas and rougher nights. The spearhead at the muzzle is a jagged spear of ash-dark steel, etched with a red runic line that pulses faintly when the wielder’s anger rises—rage, the name, a warning and a vow all in one. This is not mere hardware. The Carrion Tribe that crafted it hunted where the land sighs into the tide, scavengers who turned bone, brine, and rust into tools of survival and storytelling. The “Tribal” in its name marks a rite of passage as much as a weapon: a young hunter earns the right to carry it by surviving a night on a wreck-strewn shore, by outsmarting a deck of scavengers, by listening to the wind tell stories that old maps forgot. And then there is the “of Rage” suffix, a provenance as much as a statistic, a seal that binds weapon to its user through a shared mood—the moment when restraint loosens and every heartbeat becomes a line of enemy weak points, every breath a spark that could detonate in a rain of sharp, glinting certainty. In the world where these arms move, the speargun is more than a blade that bites from a distance. It is a story you carry into the harbor market, into the shadowed alleys of caravan camps, into the battles where the tide thins and things get personal. It rewards a swift hand and a cooler head: fires a coded harpoon that cuts through light armor and brackish air alike, then feels lighter in your grip as your focus sharpens. Its magic, if you want to call it that, isn’t only in damage or rate of fire but in rhythm—the way the shot seems to answer the pulse of the bearer, the way the red sigil watches for anger and gives back precision and courage in equal measure. In a sense, it makes the frenzy useful, a companion that channels the raw pulse of the coast into a measured, deadly cadence. On a recent dusk in the docks, I watched a trader weigh it against the price of a rusty compass and a leather map. The Saddlebag Exchange, word-of-mouth across the salt-streaked counters, named it at roughly three gold—a sum steep enough to remind you there’s history in every purchase, and history costs something hard-earned. The market breathes with stories; someone buys this speargun not merely to poke holes in armor but to stitch a chapter in their own life with the old tribe’s rage breathing in their palm. It sits now in a traveler’s pack, a siren of the sea with a temperate fuse—ready to cut through fear, to sing out in the swell, and to turn any skirmish into a remembered legend.