Dire Orrian Speargun

Dire Orrian Speargun sits on the table like a relic spilled from a tide-worn chest: a long, lacquered stock of dark, coffee-colored wood, the grain knotted with years of salt and weather. Brass fittings curve along the length, catching light in a way that makes the weapon look both ceremonial and deadly. The barrel is a pale, hammered tube, smooth as a river stone, with a stern iron spearhead at the muzzle and a mouthpiece wrapped in worn hide. A carved emblem, two entwined serpents of Orrian design, winds across the stock, their scales catching the grain and giving the impression that the weapon remembers every voyage and every skirmish. The grip is wrapped in faded leather smelling faintly of resin and rain, and a weathered tag dangles from a string, ink blurred to the color of kelp. It feels heavier in the hand than expected, not merely metal and wood, but a memory of ships cutting horizons and captains trusting their lives to a breath and a single shot. To hold the Dire Orrian Speargun is to half-hear the sea’s old argument with the shore: a weapon built to break through tight lines, pierce armor, and haul a foe from concealment into the open where another shot can finish the work. In the field, its weight and length reward the patient, disciplined shot—prime, aim, release—and the barbed shaft slides along a taut path, skimming past shoulders and belaying pins, then diving into the target with a shudder that makes the deck slick with rain and the crowd hush. It thrives in chokepoints and narrow docks, on ship decks and harbors where a single, well-placed harpoon can swing the tide of a fight. Lore clings to it as stubbornly as barnacles to a hull: some say it was forged by Orrian artisans who traded away whispers for steel, tempered by storms and the memory of leviathans that swam near the coast. Others insist the weapon bears a curse or blessing, depending on the harbinger’s intent when first loaded. Either way, the Dire Orrian Speargun enters every encounter with a story before the first spar of steel touches air. Market tales thread through its myth as well. A navigator in the harbor stalls murmurs that a specimen like this moves through the Saddlebag Exchange at a price that shifts with tides—roughly thirty to forty gold coins, depending on demand, condition, and the charm of the buyer’s tale. The numbers aren’t the point, he adds; it’s the possibility—the way a single bought weapon can rewrite a night’s voyage, turning salvage into salvageable fortune, turning a fisherman’s memory into a hunter’s future. And so the Dire Orrian Speargun remains more than metal and wood. It is a hinge in a maritime saga—between salt and silk, between liability and legend—carried by those who keep watch on a horizon that never truly forgives. It waits, patient as the sea, for the moment a careful hand can pull the trigger and make a new chapter begin.