Assassin's Mithril Pistol

The Assassin's Mithril Pistol gleams on the glassy stand, a slender spear of moonlit metal paired with a grip wrapped in worn leather that smells faintly of rain and old parchment. The barrel narrows to a cool, precise point, as if carved from a shard of winter itself, and the mithril skin dances with a micro-frost sheen that catches every lamplight, sending little starbursts across the room as you tilt it. Along the receiver, sigils coil like smoke—thin lines that promise quiet steps and sudden precision. The grip bears a patina of countless travels, the stitching black with use, the texture firm enough to trust in a moment when hesitation can be fatal. It feels balanced, not heavy enough to slow a hand, and just heavy enough to feel every twitch of nerve before a shot. In the right light, the engraving hints at a hunter’s crest—a stylized dagger entwined with a shadowed eye—lore tucked into metal, suggesting this pistol was not merely forged but destined for a purpose that outlives a single night’s reputation. Lore, in this case, threads through its very metal. Tales say the mithril was mined in dwarven seams long since sealed, then tempered with shadow magic by a guild of silent keepers who trained assassins to move like breath—soft, unseen, and deadly. The Assassin’s Mithril Pistol, as the stories go, belonged to a figure known only as the Night Collector, a rogue who traded loyalty for information and whose name is never spoken aloud in the wrong rooms. Some features survive those whispered legends—the subtle serrations along the muzzle for quieter discharge, the notch in the stock for a steadier aim, the etched glyphs that catch a glimmer of dawn and fold it back into the weapon’s heart. It’s a weapon that invites stories to tether themselves to it, that makes a skirmish feel like a page turned in a diary written in gunpowder and dusk. In the world, its significance isn’t merely in the crack of a shot but in the careful calculus of a choosy chapter in a larger narrative. A pistol like this changes the rhythm of a fight: it rewards careful pacing, closing distances with a dancer’s footwork, then snapping to a precise blurt of fire that punctuates a moment when a target thinks they have time. For those who live by stealth and speed, it’s a partner that turns risk into an opportunity; for couriers and guardians of fragile bargains, it’s a reminder that a single, well-placed shot can save a convoy, or expose a betrayal before the whispers are fully formed. Prices drift like coins in a pocket, especially in the bustling lanes where traders call out bargains to passersby. I watched a stall at Saddlebag Exchange, where a parchment tag bore the pistol’s name and a line that read, two gold and fifty silver, in careful script. It wasn’t merely about cost; it was about the certainty that someone who holds this pistol isn’t buying just a weapon, but a door to a story that someone else will tell in hushed tones when the room grows quiet and the night grows long. The exchange, in its way, is part of the pistol’s myth—a marketplace where danger is weighed against desire, and the right buyer understands that some glints of mithril are meant to be worn as a sign that the night has work yet to do.