Sentinel's Pearl Speargun

Sentinel's Pearl Speargun catches the lamplight the moment you lift it from the waxed cloth: the barrel is a seamless arc of nacre, pale as a moonlit pearl, with faint veins of salt-silver that mimic a shoreline etched into bone. The stock is dark driftwood, worn smooth by tides and by the palms of those who carried it along docks and sunlit piers; it bears marine sigils that glow a soft electric blue when the torchlight hits them. A slender guard curves around the grip, and at its heart sits a tiny pearl inlaid in a crest carved with a sentinel sea-lion, as if the guardian itself had pressed a memory of the shore into the weapon. The muzzle wears a brass ring that clicks with a satisfying weight when cocked, and the textures—slick, cool, almost clam-like to the touch—lend the gun a tactile memory of water and wind. Lore has it that this is no mere tool but a relic of the Pearl Watch, a coastal order that tames bandits and storms with a patient precision. They spoke of Marel, a sentinel who bound a sea-spirit’s memory to a length of metal and a length of line, so the speargun could warn ships in the darkest fog and pull their courage back from fear. In gameplay, the Sentinel's Pearl Speargun is a patient hunter’s companion. It rewards tracking and timing: one skill launches a long, barbed harpoon that can pin a foe in place, another sends a second shot that boomerangs with a tether, allowing you to pull rivals toward your allies or snap them away from your casters. In open water or shallow coves, the weapon remains balanced, its recoil almost a whisper, letting you chain shots with the calm of a diver circling a reef. The pearl motif isn’t mere ornament; it hints at a synergy with tidal environments, where burst-damage meets crowd control, and where the gun’s slow, deliberate tempo sometimes saves a party from a sudden maelstrom. It’s a weapon of stories—the kind you hear in the shadowed corners of harbors and markets, where veterans trade memories as much as metal. I saw it traded one afternoon at Saddlebag Exchange, a stall tucked behind crates that creaked with every sea breeze. The merchant’s fingers paused on the pearl at the heart of the weapon, murmuring about demand and stock, hawking a price that shifted with the tides. On a good week it hovered around a respectable gold or two in the mostly honest sash of golds and silvers; on lean tides, a few coins of copper and a handful of tradeable gems could seal the deal. The trade felt like a handshake between world and weapon: a promise to keep watch, to sail together, to weather what comes. Should you listen to the sea whisper that it’s time to move, the Sentinel's Pearl Speargun will answer, ready to write the next chapter of the coast’s long watch.