Carrion Glyphic Pistol of Agony

Carrion Glyphic Pistol of Agony rests on a weathered wooden crate, the metal barrel mottled with ash-gray patina and etched with bone-white glyphs that catch the torchlight in pale, trembling halos. The grip is wrapped in cracked leather, reinforced with knotted sinew, and a small charm — a dried beetle pinned under a glass plaque — dangles from the trigger guard. When you tilt it, the runes along the frame prickly glow a sickly green, like frost on a tombstone. It feels both ancient and alive, as if it could cough out a whisper from the long-dead. Legends say the weapon was poured from alloy drawn from a carrion-fed furnace, then sealed with glyphic sigils that bind pain to metal, so that every shot seems to carry a wisp of suffering. A pocket holds a folded note, a fragment of a trader’s ledger hinting at a caravan swallowed by the mist. On the battlefield, its purpose reveals itself in careful moments: to fire is to sow glyphs that spark along the target and lay down a layer of agony, a burn that lingers in armor and sinew. The pistol isn't about raw power but about chaining discomfort across groups, forcing foes to recoil, stagger, and fear their own quickened breaths. Its inscribed glyphs replay a story — a carrion's path from ruin to relic — and in that story the bearer becomes a conduit, turning ruin into utility. In practice, a keen hunter uses it to begin fights with a setup: a carefully aimed shot that marks a target, then follows with precise, rapid shots that spread afflicted conditions and siphon vitality through the glyphic network. The more the battle presses, the more the pistol seems to hum, as if the dead were whispering for justice or revenge, depending on the angle of the sun and the weight of the barrel. People tell of its role in the larger world: traders cross unstable passes bargaining away the last claims for a pistol that can bend pain into a weapon. The piece travels through markets, held in gloved hands of a courier who knows routes between ruined settlements and outposts. Saddlebag Exchange, that rough-hewn stall ring where scraps of gold clink, is where the price is laid bare. A scarred vendor names a price in gold, sometimes a cache of rare materials if the buyer has the right reputation, sometimes a barter that includes a ledger of quests completed. It’s not merely hardware; it’s a signal of a lineage, history, a decision to let agony carry a point beyond the reach of conventional force. Bought, looted, or loaned, it remains a character in a larger saga: a tool that punctures space and moment alike, forcing a choice in the fight and in the tale that follows. Carrying it means bearing a reminder that beauty can carry pain, and that some relics are meant to bend a story toward its next chapter. Even now, its bite is remembered by those who trade in fear and fortune.