Pistol

The pistol rests on the table like a sun-worn relic: a compact frame of brass and iron, its barrel gleaming a cool, greyed blue, the wood of the grip dark and lacquered to a satin sheen. Checkered panels bite into the fingers, and a line of runes—tiny, purposeful—winds along the trigger guard, worn smooth by hands that learned quick draws and quiet whispers. The grip smells faintly of oil and rain, of late-night smithing and open markets. Makers stitched their pride into the pistol’s spine, a mark of a guild of explorers who would rather be hunted than idle, and whose legends were told in gunfire. In the dark, the pistol seems to keep a memory of a vanished harbor and a duel on a rain-soaked quay, a memory that clanks every time the hammer lowers. In the world of skirmishes and street ambushes, the Pistol is more than metal and polish; it is a compact instrument for improvisation. It fits the Thief’s hand for a swift, practiced release, a quick draw that sends a warning buzz through a corridor before the blade catches up. For Engineers, it means a reliable shot while their other hand balances devices and traps. Its power is not raw brute force but precision and tempo—a pair of shots in rapid succession, a carefully timed reload, a slide that pings against a target's armor. The pistols’ fame grows where alleys narrow and loyalties fracture, when a single pull can decide who makes it to the next dawn. Some days, a whispered tale travels through a market stall about a pistol that seems to anticipate its user’s need, as if the metal itself remembers every plan you ever formed in the quiet before the fight. Prices travel with rumor and risk, traded as surely as scrap metal and map fragments. In the busy lanes around the Saddlebag Exchange, one seasoned dealer will part with a well-kept Pistol for a short haul of copper and trust, a tune-up of worn springs, and a handful of rare filters. The market hums with the clink of coins and the whisper of barter, and the seller’s stall is a small stage where stories ride on the edge of a pistol’s hammer. A buyer might swap a dented chamber for a cleaner bore, or trade a few old scripts for a pistol that once sang in a storm. The exchange makes the weapon more myth than metal, a link between street corners and distant conflicts, a beacon for dreamers who trade courage for a chance to tilt the balance back toward their own side of the dawn. To hold it is to feel the world tilt toward action—the balance between threat and opportunity. A pistol’s arc trails through the city like a rumor, a reminder that courage is sometimes a measured press and a careful breath. It is not only about the shot; it is about the trust left behind, the alliances formed when a safe retreat is secured by a few well-placed rounds. In the end, this pistol carries more than its weight in gunpowder: it carries a history of bargains, battles, and the quiet rituals of a market that keeps the spark alive in a city that never sleeps. And when a novice holds it for the first time, the room seems to lean closer, as if the weapon is guiding their hand toward a future they haven't earned yet.