Carrion Verdant Rifle of Air

The Carrion Verdant Rifle of Air sits on the table like a relic salvaged from a storm-worn chapel, its barrel a threadbare silver that catches green light, the verdigris creeping along the metal in delicate, almost fern-like veins. The stock is pale ash, worn soft by years of handling, with intricate bone-white inlays that trace a circuit of wind-runes down the length as if the weapon itself were listening for a story carried on a breeze. A narrow strip of leather binds the grip, already dark with oil and fingerprints, and a small vial of pale teal essence is tucked into a notch beneath the trigger guard, a reminder that this rifle was built for more than raw power—it was built to breathe. The verdant patina flows into the carved reliefs along the underside, where carrion blooms and sprouting leaves cling to a skeletal framework, as if decay and renewal had sealed a pact. When you tilt it to the light, the rifle glints with a faint, living shimmer, the kind that suggests a gust of wind poised to slip from the world into your palms. Its appearance whispers of lore as much as of engineering. Carrion—the word itself sits oddly on the tongue, a reminder that rot can teach, that life can sprout through the most unlikely crevices. The Verdant Rifle of Air is said to be a weapon forged by scavengers who learned to listen to the wind as a teacher, to harvest not just shots but the very breath of the battlefield. Some say the green hue comes from a secret sap used by forest-dwelling smiths who believed that air and growth share a single pulse. Others swear the bone inlays are from guardians who died in a fortress overrun by rot, their memory bound to the weapon so that it would never forget the cost of shelter. In play, the rifle feels like a conversation with the weather. Its shots cut through the roar of combat with a hollow note, each bullet carrying a whisper of air that unsettles opponents, nudging them off balance and out of cover. The weapon favors precision and timing: a volley that releases a gust of wind upon impact, scattering projectiles and forcing enemies to misstep as if they’d heard a windstorm approach from nowhere. Pairs of shots can summon a stronger gust, a quick cyclone that pushes foes back and creates space for allies to maneuver. Used with care, it rewards patience and positioning, turning narrow lanes and ruined outposts into wind-t shaken traps that favor those who read the terrain as surely as they read the enemy. Market life round it out with a different kind of story. A wanderer once told me that the price of such a relic shifts like weather—tethered to rumors, to caravans, to the next demand for rarities. I found myself in the Saddlebag Exchange, where traders lay out wares on rough wooden boards and speak in half-murmurs about demand and scarcity. The Verdant Rifle of Air drew more attention than the usual assortments of knives and lanterns, its green glimmer drawing eyes toward the table like a glint of rain on a pond. A note fluttered in a merchant’s pocket—half of a whispered estimate, half of a dare—until negotiations settled into a rhythm of chips and leather, a dance of value that could tilt a buyer’s purse with the same ease that it tilts a battlefield. So the rifle is more than weapon and ornament; it is a thread in a larger tapestry—of scavenged wisdom, of gusts remembered, of a world where decay and renewal share breath. Carrion Verdant Rifle of Air asks you to listen closely, to move with the wind, and to carry a story as carefully as you carry your aim.