Dire Orrian Speargun of Corruption

The Dire Orrian Speargun of Corruption gleams with brutal elegance, a weathered bronze frame curved like a sea-rose and braced by blackened brass that recalls sunken wrecks. Its stock is wrapped in salt-cracked leather, the grip worn smooth as driftwood, and along the barrel runes coil in silver thread, a pattern that looks almost like a tide-pulled map etched into skin. The harpoon head—long, barbed, and impossibly sharp—catches the light and gnaws at it, giving off a faint, greenish glow where the corruption trickles through its core. Patches of patina bloom across the metal as if the sea itself were breathing through the weapon, and every notch and rivet seems to have absorbed a different storm: rain-darkened, salt-salted, and somehow threaded with old, whispered rites from Orrian shores. It feels alive in your hands, as if the gun’s ancestral pulse is syncing with yours, urging you to aim toward horizons you’ve only half believed in. Lore-wise, the speargun is said to descend from the last generation of Orrian maritime necromancers, a faction that tethered corruption to weaponry as a means to scour monasteries of light and to lash out at rival fleets. The sigils along the stock are not mere decoration; they are tied to a pact that bound the weapon to sea-devils and the memories of drowned captains. In the mythos of the coastlines, it is both beacon and blight—an instrument that can hollow a ship’s morale as quickly as it can puncture a hull. In quiet moments, when the tide is low and the harbor breathes out a sigh, veterans swear they hear the faint rasp of a distant clang, as if one more life’s last cry is swallowed by the metal and returned as a lethal, patient flame. In practical terms, the piece is as much a story as it is a tool. In skirmishes along mangrove channels or on rain-slick quays, the speargun’s shot can chain a target to the gunner, drawing enemies in toward the corruption aura that blooms around impact. It excels when paired with discipline: you step forward, line up a shot against a moving target, and your next breath is spent watching the corrupted aura spread in rippling fingers of decay, forcing retreat or, in melee, turning a two-man engagement into a controlled hazard zone. Those who wield it learn to balance the brutal range with the patient softening of foes, letting the corruption do the talking while they exploit the window the aura creates. Market whispers carry the weapon’s name along gull-haunted docks, and the Saddlebag Exchange is where rumors turn into receipts. I watched a broker tally coins and crumpled parchment, old maps curling at the edges, as he weighed the Dire Orrian Speargun of Corruption against a handful of gold and a fragment of coral-amber. The going rate, I was told, floats like a tide: eight to twelve gold pieces, depending on the moon and the buyer’s tale. It’s not merely a price tag but a pledge—that you’ll guard the shipping lanes, that you’ll confront the quiet deep, that you’ll carry the weapon’s blood-worn story into new ports where it can once again teach fear and precision in equal measure.