Dire Orrian Rifle of Agony

The Dire Orrian Rifle of Agony rests on a damp counter, its barrel a long thread of gunmetal lacquered in midnight obsidian, the finish absorbing the lamp light until it glows like a pistol of cooled night. The stock is carved from dark ash, its grain tracing coastlines and ruined towers in a map the eye cannot help following. Along the receiver, runes glow faintly as if a current of cold sea-fire travels beneath the surface, and a solitary red gemstone glints in the iron sight, catching every shard of candle flame and turning it to a warning. The trigger guard curves like a predator’s jaw, and the muzzle gleams with a coppery light that suggests old alchemist tricks and newer, crueler purposes. It feels heavy with stories, as if the weapon itself remembers every volley fired in a forgotten mutiny or a siege that burned beyond the horizon. A lore whisper threads through the room: this rifle was born of Orrian engineers who learned to temper gunpowder with sea salt and curses, to coax pain from a single, precise shot. The Agony suffix is not mere theatre; it marks a lineage of weapons etched with torment. The runes promise patience in the hand and a sting in the target’s breath, as if the gun’s power gathers on the barrel like rain before a storm. The coil of carved serpents along the barrel seems to constrict with every breath—the weapon’s magic, if one dares call it that, feeding on fear and focus in equal measure. In the field, the rifle does not simply hit a mark; it tilts the balance of a fight. A careful shot can strip armor to bone, then plant a bloom of Torment that gnaws at the target’s resolve as long as the wound remains exposed to the shooter’s eyes. When paired with a careful tempo—one measured shot, a patient breath, a second—its cadence becomes a rhythm for a squad, a song of discipline that can pull a skirmish from chaos into calculation. The weapon’s edge lies not only in damage but in the way it pries open a fortified frontline, forcing enemies to weave their defenses around the rhythm of a single, precise bolt. It is a tool for maps and meetings, for negotiations that hinge on a single choice made under copper-scented torchlight. The price, of course, travels as swiftly as the rumor mill. I heard the name of Saddlebag Exchange whispered through a cluttered alleyway, a stall where rusted coins and rare glimmers of magicked glass change hands with the barest nod. There, a wary dealer weighed the rifle with two fingers on the balance, then slid it across the scarred wood with a careful breath. Saddlebag Exchange never rushes a decision; they trade stories as much as steel, and in that quiet commerce the Dire Orrian Rifle of Agony found a new potential owner, someone who would learn the weapon’s patience and its cruelty in equal measure. In that moment, the gun ceased to be simply an artifact and became part of a larger story—the way a single weapon can hinge a world’s turning, a hinge that holds tight when the storm comes again.