Apothecary's Destroyer Pistol

Apothecary's Destroyer Pistol gleams in the lamplight, its grip carved from pale, grainy bone and wrapped in a resinous sheath that smells faintly of juniper and old iron. The brass barrel curls with delicate, almost theatrical engravings—sigils of tinctures and rosettes that glow faintly when the pistol is warmed by a pocketful of embers. Along the length, tiny glass vials are embedded like a string of perilous beads, each sealed with a cork and a seal that bears a starry apothecary’s mark. When you lift it, the weight sits sure and deliberate, the texture a tempered balance of cool steel under warm wood, the triggerguard a crafted crescent cradling the finger. It’s not merely a tool; it’s a heirloom of late-night alchemy and late-night scrapes, a weapon curated by someone who treated every outbreak as a puzzle and every punch as a fate. The pistol’s lore threads through alleys and harbor warehouses, whispered among peddlers who barter in cures and curses. The apothecary who conceived it believed poison and antidote alike began as a question of timing—how to deliver a remedy when a wound is still raw. So the Destroyer isn’t about brute force alone; it’s about turning a moment of vulnerability into a counterstrike. When fired, a meek click answers a rapid hiss, and a bubble of mist leaps from the barrel like a trapped night bloom. On impact, the payload splinters into a small storm: toxins that sting the senses, acids that chew at leather and rust that bites at rust, and a controlled flash that blinds for a heartbeat. If an ally steps into the smoke, the mist can feel almost medicinal—winding back pain, easing throats, guiding a fleeing rider to safety. If an enemy charges, the blast unsettles brittle nerves and scatters even the bravest plans. It’s intervention as theater, a weapon that turns science into a story of seconds. In practice, the Destroyer’s power is as much about rhythm as range. It slows a skirmish just long enough for a caravan guard to wheel a cart into shadow, or for a healer to press a damp cloth to a burn and whisper a better rumor into the wind. The pistol’s strength lies in the moment after the shot, when the air stills and a path is opened—enough for a sprint, enough for a retreat, enough for a calculated gamble that saves a life or seals a fate. It’s the sort of relic that earns its place in a tale told around a coalsmoked table, where merchants bargain, and a story of a cure that almost killed becomes a legend about who survives plague and who does not. Pricing, as you’d expect, is a rumor carried by traders and scribes. A tag flutters at Saddlebag Exchange, leather worn thin, the numbers half in care and half in bravado: roughly two gold coins, with a bargaining margin that makes room for a whispered “what about a trade?” The broker’s smile—faint as a candle’s edge—tells you the pistol’s worth is not only in metal, but in the trust it inspires when a night grows heavy and the road ahead looks darker than the last lamp’s glow.