Carrion Glyphic Rifle

The Carrion Glyphic Rifle sits on the vendor's cloth, its barrel a pale, bone-like alloy etched with sigils that ripple in candlelight. The stock is a dark, polished slab, with glyph-runed grip and a patina hinting at memory. The metal wears a dull copper sheen, the sight a slender notch with bone-white inlays. Its name is burned into the butt in looping script that seems to move when you blink, as if the rifle itself is listening. A warm, living touch lingers along the barrel when you cradle it, as though some old hunter's breath still rides the metal. It asks for patience as much as aim, for the glyphs do not rush their memory tonight. Old codices tell of carrion rites where artisans bind glyphic cycles into steel, so every measure carries a whisper of the underworld. When you shoulder it, the weapon hums softly, and the runes glow amber for a heartbeat after the trigger. It feels less like a tool and more like a message from a dead guide, a glyph written across torn banners and rusted helmets. In the right light, you swear you hear distant drums, as if the world itself marks your aim. In taverns the rifle earns glances; veterans speak of nights when a single shot changed a cliffside ambush. In combat, it belongs to the careful marksman who reads a fight like a map. Its shots slice through armor and weave into lingering conditions, stacking pressure across foes. The glyphs are said to siphon life on impact, granting healing to the wielder with well-placed hits. In a squad, it’s a storyteller’s rifle: each hit turns skirmish into a narrative where timing and patience decide the day. Treated right, it pairs with condition builds, amplifying poison and bleed, while the glyphic aura punishes careless advances. Its weight sits like a sentence in your hands, a deliberate act that asks for focus before the world erupts into skirmish. Market days fix a price that makes veterans pause. I found it at Saddlebag Exchange, a stall where old maps mingle with rumors. The clerk traced the script, neither promising nor denying, weighing risk against reputation. Today the ledger read a premium, a sum that could buy scarce ingredients and shelter, yet the smile around the counter suggested the glow still held prestige. The right buyer could cut a deal—perhaps rare pelts or relics—because the market here is a circle of trust and bold bargaining. By dusk I left with the rifle resting across my back, the glyphs dimmed but waiting, a memory and a promise. It is not merely iron and wood; it is a chapter torn from a field report, a reminder that some marks in the world are meant to be read as you move through them, louder than any shout. The Carrion Glyphic Rifle becomes a story you carry into the next engagement. Sometimes a buyer's gaze says more than coins, and you walk away knowing you carried a small, dangerous memory.