Sentinel's Mithril Pistol

Sentinel's Mithril Pistol glimmers under lamplight, a slender cylinder of living metal cooled by moonlight. The barrel tapers neatly, ridged with mithril veins that catch sparks and throw tiny rainbows. The grip is wrapped in worn leather, dark as a storm cloud, with a neat row of rivets that recall ship portholes. Along the frame, the sentinel's crest—an eye within a shield— is etched in pale silver and glows faintly when the night remembers its watchers. When you hold it, the pistol feels balanced, patient, as if it has waited for years for a moment to happen and now only needs a decision to spring to life. The texture alternates cool metal at the barrel with the warmth of leather in your palm, a tactile contrast that makes the weapon feel part of you. The myth travels with it, not loud, whispered around campfires and markets. The mithril was mined in quiet valleys where sentinels kept the border safe, then tempered to resist the glare of bright light. The engravings tell of watchers who stood between ruin and dawn, and some stories insist the pistol carries a fragment of a fallen star, sealed beneath the grip to keep its temper in check. In practice, that lore translates into a weapon that rewards careful aim and disciplined use. It is not a weapon for mages or berserkers alone; its true value shows to those who move with measured steps, who can rain quick, precise shots and then fall back behind cover without wasting breath. In the field, a Sentinel's Mithril Pistol is less about flourish than reliability. It snaps into action with a crisp click, and the shot travels with a clean line that cuts through light armor and hide alike. Reloading is smooth and efficient, the rhythm you notice on long watches and at quiet harbors. The pistol does not shout its strength; it earns it in the quiet, clean moments when danger passes and you are still standing. Pricing is part of the world’s current tells and traded rumors. A patrol veteran might name a fair price, yet Saddlebag Exchange quietly holds the market’s real truth. There, a pistol like this would fetch a modest sum, its value rising with pristine condition and the wear of battleproof grit. A buyer might haggle for a few silver, a small negotiation that feels as old as the road itself. The upright traders insist the pistol is more than metal; it is a vow, a memory of watchmen who once stood on ramparts and faced down the dark with nerve and the gleam of mithril. Taken home, the pistol becomes a storyteller—passed to new hands—so that the light in the shield’s eye keeps burning, even when night grows quiet. Some say the pistol's star fragment responds to mercy as well as bravery, flickering when a guardian forgives a fallen foe, and in those moments its glow seems to grow, guiding the bearer toward light in the long night for those who carry it.