Carrion Verdant Pistol of Corruption

Carrion Verdant Pistol of Corruption rests on the counter with a quiet menace, its barrel a sickly shimmer of emerald glass that seems to drink light rather than reflect it. The metalwork is brushed steel darkened by age, while the grip is carved from pale bone, etched with writhing vines that curl and twitch as if alive. A muted patina crawls along the length of the pistol, a verdant bloom that hints at rot transmuted into power. Innumerable micro-runes trace the frame, glowing faintly like bioluminescent mold under moonlight, and the motto etched beneath the hammer—when whispered, it seems to promise a cure that never quite arrives—speaks to a lore of corruption transformed into weapon. In the late hours of the Shrouded Moon Market, I heard the pistol tell its own story through a string of careful taps and reverent nods. It’s said to be forged where carrion-fed alchemy met occult green magic, a lineage of scavengers who learned to siphon life from the world’s decay and turn it into something that bites back. The Verdant finish is more than cosmetics: it’s a record of conquest, a green garden grown on a battlefield, leaves rustling with every shot, a bloom that claws at enemies and tethers their fate to yours for a heartbeat longer than breath. Its presence in a fight is less about flourish and more about consequence. The Carrion Verdant Pistol of Corruption isn’t a brute’s tool but a conspirator’s ally. In skilled hands, its shots thread through defenses, applying a steady veil of conditions that converge into a lethal chorus. Bleed and Poison coil around a target as the verdant aura expands in a slow, patient pulse, and those who survive the first barrage find their second wind decays into hesitation. It doesn’t merely wound; it reframes the moment—forcing foes to decide whether to press forward in a riskier rush or retreat into the ash-scented corridors of the field while your allies press the advantage. In sustained skirmishes, the pistol’s color and cadence become a language: a language of corruption that can melt away the margins of defeat and tilt the balance toward the living. As stories go, this weapon travels where rumor travels—from the market stalls of Divinity’s Reach to the hidden warrens of the Verdant Waste—and it carries with it a price that changes with time and mood. In the bustle of the Saddlebag Exchange, traders whisper about the pistol’s worth in hushed tones, the price bustling up and down with every fresh batch of rumors. A wary vendor might offer guidance in exchange for a tale of a recent encounter with rot-born miracles; another would name a figure in silver and consider it a bargain if the buyer can demonstrate a willingness to endure the weapon’s green hunger. The exchange is a marketplace for relics with stories as sharp as their steel, and the Carrion Verdant Pistol of Corruption is a prime specimen: coveted, feared, and never quite tame. Walking away with it—or watching it pass to another hand—feels like stepping into a larger, ongoing story. The pistol isn’t merely a tool; it’s a chapter in the world’s slow, stubborn healing and its quicker, more alarming rot, a reminder that power, once forged, rarely stays quiet for long.