Carrion Verdant Speargun of Air

The Carrion Verdant Speargun of Air rests on the railing of a weathered quay, its stock a splash of green driftwood lacquered to a glassy sheen, the grain twisting like kelp in a windless current. The barrel, pale and bone-colored, bears sigils etched in a thin, blue-ink glow that lights up when the harbor fog thickens. Leather wraps around the grip in a rough, fish-skin texture, darkened by resin and salt, and small rivets along the fore-end catch the dawn light as if they were droplets of dew on a blade. A carved skull of some long-forgotten sea creature acts as a bow ornament, its eye socket catching the light and throwing it back in a sly, approving wink. The whole thing feels alive, as if the weapon itself had learned to breathe with the tides, to listen to the gulls, to answer with a whisper of wind whenever it finds a target. In the lore-laced corners of the harbor, the weapon is spoken of as both curse and blessing. Carrion Verdant speaks to decay turning to renewal, a paradox wrapped in verdant skin and air-born purpose. It is said the old river spirits tempered the metal with wind-salt, teaching it to bite only when the air carries truth. When you lift it, the world seems to lean in, listening for the breath of the next gust. The speargun’s fame isn’t merely in its beauty or its whispering sigils; it’s in the way it invites the user to choreograph a skimming dance with the wind: a shot that cuts through spray, a flight path that arcs over the shoulder of wave and man, and an impact that feels like a small cyclone tearing into the target and then sighing back into calm. Gameplay-wise, its power feels less about raw damage and more about rhythm and distance. The projectiles ride on a veil of air, with reach that surprises those crouched behind hulls and barrels. A well-timed release can pin a foe against a mast, pinging armor as the wind unthreads their footing, and the long reload invites you to reposition, to listen for a second breeze that hints at the next opportunity. Players speak of setting up ambushes along waterlines, where the speargun’s air-anointed darts weave through spray and leave enemies a fraction off-bate, enough to give the hunter a moment to step into the shadow of a sail and vanish again into the harbor’s murmur. Prices drift through the market like fog rolling off the pier, small rumors turning into coin with the right buyer. I found a moment to pause at Saddlebag Exchange, the little shop where the hawkers fold maps, rope, and relics into neat corners of the room. The clerk weighed the specter of the verdant weapon on a damp, copper-heavy balance, murmuring that the current bid hovered around two gold and a handful of silver—fair for something with a story this long and this slippery with wind. They spoke of trades and tides, of what a buyer would do with the wind’s own breath in their hand. I walked away with the thought that, some nights, a weapon is less a tool than a doorway—into stories, into storms, into the long, bright edge where land stops and sea remembers the air.