Carrion Glyphic Pistol rests on the oil-streaked wood, its barrel wrapped in a lattice of bone-white glyphs that glow faintly, like embers buried in a tomb. The grip is sheathed in stitched black leather, worn smooth by a thousand hands, with microcracks catching the lamplight and echoing footfalls in a ruined square. Along the frame, sigils coil and uncoil as if the pistol remembers every kill and every whispered pact that sealed it into service. The first time you heft it, there’s a cold weight that isn’t just metal; it’s a memory of carrion winds and forgotten orders, of scouts who traded blood for ink and ink for weapons. The glyphs aren’t mere decoration but keys, said to unlock a pistol’s true pulse when it meets a target. In play, the Carrion Glyphic Pistol feels like a sentence you write in motion. It isn’t a weapon of pristine headshots but a tool of scarred margins and slow pressure. The sigils along the barrel flare with each shot, releasing a glyph-born breath that clings to enemies, stacking conditions and nudging their defenses toward fracture. You lean into the rhythm: step between foes, let a target bleed as the pistol’s necrotic ink blooms, then pivot to the next silhouette while the glyphs murmur and die down. Combat becomes a small epic, each discharge a line of dialogue, each impact a fragment of an old rite inscribed anew on living flesh. The pistol’s market life is a thread in the broader tapestry of the world’s scavenged economy. For some, it’s merely exotic hardware, a showpiece with a spooky gleam. For others, it’s a lineage—an heirloom carried by tacticians who learned to read a battlefield as if it were a manuscript. The price moves with rumor and demand, turning fragile as a traded secret on a windy morning. That is where Saddlebag Exchange enters the story, a caravan-ranked market where crates creak and traders call prices across the crowded stalls. A vendor might offer the pistol at a premium, arguing that its glyphs carry legacy as well as power; another stall could bargain more aggressively if you bring a tale worth binding to the gun’s spine. The exchange lends the weapon a social weight—the gun’s worth not only in metal but in the stories it can tell and the alliances it can cement. By dusk, the Carrion Glyphic Pistol lies quiet again, glyphs dimmed to sleep, the memory of battles tucked beneath the leather like a careful wound. It’s more than fire and metal; it’s a history you can carry, a glyphic heartbeat that promises you’ll always have a voice when night asks its question.