Carrion Glyphic Pistol of the Geomancer

Carrion Glyphic Pistol of the Geomancer gleams with a patina of soil-dark brass, its barrel tapered and bound with wan bone-white inlays that trace the length of the gun. The grip is wrapped in cracked, oiled leather, etched with tiny runes that pulse when the weapon hums with earth-energy. Its iron sights are speckled with flecks of rust and mineral dust, as if the weapon has spent years listening to the ground beneath many feet. The surface is cool to the touch, memory of buried caverns. When you raise it to light, the glyphs catch and scatter a slow amber glow, as if sediment leaning toward the surface after rain. Lore says it was forged at the intersection where mineral spirits answer a geomancer’s call, a relic bred from ore dragged to the surface by patient hands. The pistol carries that history like a weight in the pocket of a long journey, a whisper of caves, miners, and an order that learned to converse with stone. Within a skirmish it’s less about raw power and more about turning terrain into an ally. A charged shot releases a glyph that sinks into the earth, spawning a ring of tremors that slows or destabilizes opponents; another glyph anchors a shield of mineral light and hardens ground underfoot, giving your team a moment to regroup. It can also chain glyphs into a seismic fissure under a target, knocking them off balance and exposing cracks in their plans. It’s the kind of tool that rewards map sense and patient positioning, letting a Geomancer keep enemies respectful of a doorway or a narrow ledge without wading in with brute force. Inside the instant of impact, the glyphs hum like bees around roots, pulling dust into sigils that knit soil and stone into a living boundary; tremors surge at the edge of the ring, and a well-timed shot can tilt a shielded doorway just enough for a flank to slip through. Prices drift through the market like leaves on a canal. At Saddlebag Exchange, a weathered trader named Jareth laid the pistol on a faded cloth, the glyphs catching the lamplight as he spoke of scarcity and care. The asking price hovered around a handful of silver and a charge of limestone—something a collector would recognize as durable, not easily spent. We traded a few maps of old mining camps for the relic and a promise to return with a more exact record of its travels. Outside, rain slicks the cobbles and the stalls creak under tarps as customers circle, coins clink, and the matter of value becomes a small theater. Back on the road, I carry the pistol like a story waiting to be told—of a geomancer coaxing mineral spirits from bedrock and of tunnels that echo with tremors, of how a weapon can shape fights and legends. Before I sheath it again, the pistol seems to remember every hand that ever held it—how it traveled from underground to a street market, from geomancer’s pact to a scholar’s cabinet, perhaps to a dawn where limestone and marrow sing together. And perhaps that is the point: a weapon that bears witness to a living world, not merely to a score in a ledger.