Carrion Aetherized Pistol

Carrion Aetherized Pistol rests on a scarred wooden worktable, its barrel pale as bone, the grip wrapped in weathered leather stained with oil and salt. The metal along its spine is etched with runes that glow faint emerald when it catches lamplight, like a whispering vein of energy. The muzzle opens with the scent of rust and something clinical, as if the weapon hums to itself when idle. A strip of horn and brass forms the sight, while the stock bears a faded sigil of carrion-mage-hunters from a forgotten outpost. The surface is rough to the touch, gritty with resin and the telltale micro-scratches of battlefield use. It is both elegant and macabre, a pistol that looks as if it were plucked from the bone-yard and polished by a patient necromancer. Its lore threads through the marketplace of memory; forged by a revenant-smith who coaxed aether out of death itself, binding it to a relic of carrion rites. The aetherized craft binds life-energy to cold steel, so each shot seems to steal a wisp of your target’s vitality and leak it back into the weapon’s own pulse. When the hammer falls, the room brightens with a sickly green coruscation, and the air tastes faintly coppery, as if you’ve drawn a breath from a long-buried corpse. That is not mere flourish—the pistol is said to hum with stories: battles where scavengers, plague-vine hunters and war-scarred diplomats alike carried it to tilt the balance of life and death. In the field, the Carrion Aetherized Pistol is less about raw speed than about reading the moment. It favors decisive, precise shots at mid-range, where a single round can unsettled a shield and bend a foe toward retreat. The aether core sustains its charge through careful use; you’ll notice the projectile leaving with a pale tail of energy that licks a target’s warding like a reluctant flame. Because its power draws on lingering carrion-aether, it can be especially effective against necromantic foes and corrupted soldiers who thrive on life-draining rituals. It’s not a weapon for showboating; it’s a tool meant to end a standoff where every breath counts, a piece of an arcanist’s or scavenger’s toolkit where memory and machine mingle. Its price, as much a part of its myth as its form, travels through the underground of barter and rumor. If you listen long enough in the Saddlebag Exchange, where caravans swap stories and wares, you’ll hear calls for this pistol that range from whispered bargains to audacious offers. Someone might trade a cache of carved bone beads, a vial of preserved night-bloom essence, or a map inked with the coordinates of a forgotten outpost. The hawker’s eyes gleam when buyers understand the weight of the deal: a rare gun that remembers its maker, and, in turn, makes you remember the world you carry it into next. When I sling it across my back, the pistol feels like a contract with the living and the dead alike—a reminder that some relics don’t just fire; they tell you where you’ve been, and where you might dare to go next.