Soldier's Verdant Speargun

Soldier's Verdant Speargun sits on a scarred wooden table, its barrel a gleaming jade ribbon that catches the lamplight and seems to glow from within. The stock is carved from dark wood, worn smooth by years of shoulder against armor, with brass inlays tracing leaf-like motifs along the grip. A thin leather strap is frayed at the edges, but still smells of oil and pine when you lift it. Runes etched along the handguard tell of a unit whispered about in markets—the Verdant Guard, soldiers who pressed into forest borders, keeping watch as vines and law braided into one another. The texture, cool and warm in the palm, invites steady hands and patient aim; the verdant finish wears like armor against exposure. In the light, the lacquer shifts from emerald to moss, and flecks catch like dew on a leaf. When you tilt it, the mechanism hums with precise resilience, built to endure heat, rain, and the long hours between patrols. In the morning market by the river I found it at a stall selling relics and rations. The dealer polished the gun with a cloth as red as sunset and spoke of Saddlebag Exchange, where such blades move fastest and rumors fuse with prices. A leather tag bore a rough price—around three gold pieces, perhaps more for the right buyer who comes to Saddlebag Exchange when the bids rise. Collectors and mercenaries circle, trading rumors of where they last saw a battle. Shadows lengthen as the crowd shifts, and the price feels momentarily alive. People speak of it as more than a weapon, a remnant of campaigns that turned river storms into stories. In play, its reach lets you hold a line, poke at enemies behind cover, and push through skirmishes with purpose. It pairs with a hunter’s instinct—timing, patience, a well-timed shot. Veterans say the Verdant Speargun does not shout; it whispers, and when it hits, the echo lingers. It belongs to soldiers who read the terrain—the glint of brass signaling a trusted route, the lacquered leaf hinting at shortcuts through brush. Used with a steady hand, it can turn a standoff into momentum, a pause that lets a squad regroup. There is a sense of responsibility that comes with owning it; you feel tested, stepping into the path of those Verdant Guard. As the day wanes, a young courier pulls the gun from its case and cradles it like a memory. The dealer notes: "Prices shift with the Saddlebag Exchange, but the story stays." In that exchange—trade, memory, weathered wood—the Soldier's Verdant Speargun finds a new chapter in the world’s chronicle, passing from hand to hand, always ready to tell its tale when a line must be held or a foe drawn near. Some say it is a relic, others a tool; for its owner it is a guide back to the frontier where it earned its name. And as night settles over the river stalls, the green gleam still promises that the next patrol will arrive with it—and so the tale continues.