Apothecary's Mithril Rifle

Apothecary's Mithril Rifle gleams under the shopfront lamp, its barrel a slender spear of hammered mithril that catches the light with a cold, liquid glow. The stock is a careful mosaic of ebony wood, smooth as a well-loved tool, carved with delicate sigils that echo the careful craft of a healer and the patient discipline of a marksman. Along the length of the tube run thin vein-like inlays, like botanical tracings pressed into metal, while the muzzle wears a ring of brass that pivots with a quiet, almost ceremonial precision. A small glass ampoule nestles into the butt, its amber contents catching the glow and pulsing faintly whenever the weapon is handled, as if the vial itself holds a whisper of the tinctures that birthed its name. The grip is wrapped in leather stiff with polish, and the entire piece carries a scent of oil, resin, and distant rain; it feels both ceremonial and practical, as if it were forged to heal and to protect in equal measure. Lore binds the rifle to an age-old alliance between science and survival. It is said to have been forged in the same workshop that brewed poultices for the battlefield—mithril’s cool certainty tempering powder and a careful dose of alchemy sealed within the chamber. The apothecary whose name graces the brass plate was a wanderer who treated fever, rot, and fear with equal care, turning field recipes into field-ready tools. Some stories insist the glass vial contains a tincture that could soothe a wound and stiffen a resolve, a double-edged remedy that reminded soldiers to pause and aim, not merely shoot. The rifle’s very presence on the line speaks to a world where craft and combat braid together, where a healer’s hands could steady a shooter’s focus and a shooter’s aim could guard a healer’s work. In play, its value emerges not from flashy power but from a thoughtful balance between reach, precision, and the calm patience it invites. It asks a player to pick their moments, to line up a clean shot against a skirmish’s chaos, and to let the weapon’s measured recoil carry the eye to the next target. The Mithril Rifle rewards careful positioning and glow-lit timing: step out of the shadows, mark the vulnerable trooper in the distance, and let the shot do the heavy lifting for the moment. Its cartridge work—especially when paired with alchemical or craft-enhanced rounds—lets a casual encounter tilt toward controlled, decisive engagements rather than frantic spray. In the wider world, those who carry such a rifle carry with them a quiet reputation: a reputation tethered to the apothecary’s patient hand and the smith’s steady eye, a reminder that healing and harm can travel the same road if tempered with discipline. Markets meet the weapon’s myth with a practical hum. Saddlebag Exchange, that bustling ledger of trade, often lists the Apothecary’s Mithril Rifle among historic arms, its price floating with demand, provenance, and the lore a buyer cares to chase. A collector might see it priced in the upper ranges when pristine inscriptions and rare runes accompany the bloom of mithril, while steadier hands can find a reasonable path through the usual negotiation. The gun’s true value, after all, lies not just in its metal and wood, but in the story it carries—of apothecaries who turned tinctures into tools, and of a frontier world where craft and courage walk hand in hand.