Apothecary's Mithril Pistol

The Apothecary's Mithril Pistol glints under the lamplight, a slender barrel forged from pale mithril, cool as moonlit water to the touch. Its grip is wrapped in weathered leather, stitched with fine silver thread, and the hilt bears a delicate embossing of a bottle and a mortar, a wink to the alchemist who once tended to poison and remedy in the same breath. Along the barrel, runes—thin, precise lines—trace a pattern of seals and vials, as if the metal itself remembers the chemical fires of late-night workshops. A small glass capsule is set into the grip, you can see its amber contents ripple when you tilt the pistol just so, a remnant of the draught that powered the creator's nervous courage. The hammer is smooth and cold, and when you cock it, the action rings with the crisp report of a clean line drawn in air, as if the tool were signing a contract between healer and hunter. In lore-rich markets and dusty ports, this pistol is more than metal and glass. It was born in a workshop where bartered herbs met streetwise alchemy, where a healer-musician named Sera kept a pocketful of potent draughts and a pocket full of debts. They say she designed the pistol to deliver remedies in the moment of need while keeping the user light of foot and swift of hand. Some versions carry a faint scent of camphor and resin, others a hint of juniper and smoke; the lore-cloth speaks of varied vials set behind the trigger, meant to spray a medicated mist or a melting antidote on contact. The myth persists that every time you draw it, you are reminded that war and care are two sides of the same coin—one pulled to save, the other to end a threat. Gameplay-wise, its marked steadiness makes it a favorite for those who favor a measured strike over brute force. It fires quickly, with a clean crack that cuts through the chatter of a skirmish, allowing the user to stitch together repositioning, feints, and precise shots before the moment passes. The mithril barrel holds its shape even in heavy rain and cobbled streets, resisting wear and keeping its weight just enough to feel controlled in the palm. The alchemical core, whatever the patient labors might be, lends a subtle edge to crits, a bright flare of myth in the middle of a firefight, reminding you that every step into danger is a step into a story. Prices drift in the Saddlebag Exchange, where parcels of tincture and trinket ride on the backs of carts. A well-kept example might fetch a handful of gold, more if the runes glow brighter or a rare reagent is still sealed within the glass. I watched a dealer lift one from a velvet-lined case, noting the way the patina shifts with the flame. It is not merely commerce; it is the exchange of legends, a way to carry a tale in your belt as you walk the night streets, ready to protect what you’ve learned to love.