Sentinel's Steam Speargun of Agony

Sentinel's Steam Speargun of Agony rests on the workbench like a trapped tempest, its brass barrel catching the flame’s reflection and scattering it into a thousand smoky motes. The body is a mosaic of copper plates and rivets, each seam pressed with precise care, as if the weapon were a letter written to a future you about how to endure a siege. A glass gauge at the top glints with a faint, emerald glow, thick steam curling from a vent carved with sentinel sigils that look almost alive when you tilt it toward the light. The grip is wrapped in weathered leather that smells faintly of oil and rain, cool to the touch and reassuringly solid, as if it had absorbed the memory of every hand that ever held it. The spearhead itself gleams with a tempered steel sheen, etched with runes that pulse a subtle blue when danger nears, like a watchful eye sewn into the metal. There is a whisper of old lore threaded through its design, the kind that clings to metal until it becomes almost a character in its own right. They say this speargun carried the weight of a sentinel’s oath during a long night when the city walls breathed with smoke and fear. The steam is not just heat; it’s a conduit, a way to funnel the agony of those trapped in conflict into a precise, controlled force. When the gun fires, a barbed steam spear rips forward, not merely piercing armor but delivering the kind of pressure that makes a shield crack from the inside. The Agony engraved into the runes is not just a label—it’s a memory the weapon keeps and passes along to whoever wields it, a reminder that protection can come at a price. In practical terms, the Speargun of Agony is a tool that blends engineering grit with battlefield cunning. A careful shot can pierce multiple foes in a tight line, its steam-charged projection absorbing heat from armor into a hurried, almost surgical impact. The weapon’s true strength lies in its lingering sting: after the initial strike, the Agony builds, a painful ticking that gnaws at foes and lends a strategic cadence to encounters. It invites a hunter’s rhythm—advance, fire, pause, let the steam fill the moment with pressure—so that each engagement unfolds like a chapter in a larger story rather than a single clash. Prices don’t vanish into the ether; they tumble like coins from a pocket, especially in a corridor of traders and whispers. I watched a marketside tale unfold as the emblem glowed faintly in the lamplight and a price tag appeared on a chalkboard, noting the going rate for this relic. Saddlebag Exchange, with its crowded stalls and wary patrons, offered a bartered balance: a handful of rare components, a ledger of past raids, and three gold pieces plus a belt of silver in exchange for the Sentinel’s Steam Speargun of Agony. The seller’s eyes lingered on the gauge, measuring not just value but the story still living in the weapon’s metal. It’s hard to separate the worth of a fearsome tool from the fear it can chase away, and the exchange ledger proves it: in a world where danger travels on iron wheels and steam, the price of protection is always a negotiation between memory and power.