Carrion Verdant Pistol of Air

The Carrion Verdant Pistol of Air glows with a sickly green radiance, its brass barrel narrowing to a whispering nozzle, the surface ridged with mossy patina and etched runes that curl like lichens. The grip, carved from pale bone, remains cool to the touch and bears tiny bite-marks as if the weapon had fed on the fear of its previous bearers. A thin seam along the spine glints with a thread of wind-sigil silver, so fine that one can swear the metal itself remembers a storm. The entire piece feels alive with a quiet ache, as if it had traveled through damp crypts and sunlit markets alike, collecting whispers of the dead and the living. Locals tell that it is more than metal and bone: a carrion-crest was bound into its heart by an old tinker who traded in rumors, weaving verdant sigils to coax life from rot. To hold it is to feel the world tilt just enough to catch your breath, as if the pistol borrows a season from the air itself. The Verdant's green sheen deepens whenever danger nears, and in certain memories the weapon seems to hum with a breeze that carries a scent of rain and pollen. In the right hands, it becomes a story you can fire off in one measured breath—a rumor made tangible and true. In play, the pistol is less a fashion flourish than a partner in a larger design. Its shots carry a whisper of wind that unsettles close foes and makes space where there was none, while the verdant core can scatter a brief gust to knock light-armor enemies off balance or eggs of frost off a heated skirmish. Wielders speak of rapid sequences that feel almost like a conversation with the air: a quick draw, a flashing punch of emerald light, and a retreat that leaves their pursuers with nothing but rattling wind in their ears. The weapon is particularly favored by those who blend mobility with astute timing, turning small advantages into chances to press the advantage or slip through an opening. It’s not just the damage; it’s the tempo—the way a good shot can redraw the battlefield in your mind as surely as your footwork redraws your path. Price talk tends to drift along the docks and desert roads where traders trade pace for powder. On a bright morning at Saddlebag Exchange, a seasoned merchant hums over the clink of coins, noting that the Carrion Verdant Pistol of Air has found its way into more wrists than one would expect. They price it modestly, then rise and fall with stories told, sometimes a few silver more when curiosity blooms and a collector’s gaze rests on the verdant gleam. Even the price feels like a gust: negotiable, remembered, and carried away with the buyer, like a shared secret stitched into a pocket. In the end, the Carrion Verdant Pistol of Air is not only a tool but a thread between rot and renewal, between market chatter and marching thunder. A weapon that survives wayfarers’ tales as surely as it survives bony fingers and the breath of the wind. The world holds its breath when it passes. And that, perhaps, is the instrument’s true craft. A tale you carry.