Steam Speargun

Steam Speargun rests on a weathered oak workbench, brass barrel gleaming under a flickering lamp. Copper tubing runs along its length, glinting as if it stores captured sunlight, and a glass gauge pulses with each tentative breath of the room. The stock is a dark, lacquered wood, worn smooth by hands that have steadied it against spray and fear. Its muzzle wears a ring of sea-foam patina, and the etched crest—an entwined anchor and gear—speaks of a lineage where sailing and steamwork were welded into one stubborn machine. When you cradle it, the whole thing seems to hum with a patient temper, like a tide that has learned to wait before breaking. Pull the lever and steam hisses through the hidden channels; a harpoon rockets free with a keen, seawater snap, slicing through air as if time slowed just for a moment. The harpoon is built to bite into timber or armor, and the line it unfurls carries a promise: you can reel a foe toward you, or pin a slippery target to a dock post or a snagged rigging. It is not a weapon of brute force so much as control—an engineered lasso that can rearrange the map of a skirmish in the middle of a crowded battlefield. In practice, it shines in tense, mid-range engagements where you need to close distance, disrupt a line, or yank a fat bull from a frontline stalemate. It pairs well with alchemical gadgets and quick-thinking plays, turning a sturdy hit into a repositioning moment that makes room for a partner’s follow-up. Among seasoned crews, the Steam Speargun is less a weapon than a trusted companion in rough weather. In the lore of the coast where steamboats once carved new routes through fog and reef, the Steam Speargun is said to have been born out of a salvage crew’s desperation. A battered shipwright and a chemist sitting at a broken helm patched together a device that could fight as reliably as it could salvage. The result was not just a tool of conquest but a reminder that voice and velocity matter—the ship’s stubborn heart still beats, even when the sails are torn and the engines are asked to pull more than their own weight. The gun’s line is rumored to carry salt-sting and stories of battered hulls, of crews saved by a timely grab and a tether that held fast as waves rose on the stern. Prices drift with wind and season, and Saddlebag Exchange is a good barometer of demand. A well-kept Steam Speargun commonly changes hands around the late-game price range—an inch of gold here, a few more there—around eighteen to twenty-two gold pieces for an specimen in fine condition. Negotiations are often colored by tales of night watches, of harpoons snagging on rigging during a storm, of the gear’s stubborn reliability when every second counts. It’s enough to pull a reader or a captain into the same ship, sharing the same old song: when you’ve got something that can turn a tide with a single line, the sea becomes a little less merciless and a lot more navigable. Its legend lingers in the salt air, longer than any price tag.