Rabid Green Wood Harpoon Gun of Fire

Rabid Green Wood Harpoon Gun of Fire rests on a rain-slick market table, its stock carved from rabid green wood that seems to pulse with a living glow. The barrel threads into a slender, slightly crooked muzzle, copper and iron etched along its length like riverine braids, catching the light and turning it into a small, patient blaze. Runes run in a delicate script along the grip, and a resinous sheen coats the hardwood, giving the weapon a lacquered, damp warmth that invites a touch even as you know better. The harpoon itself hangs from a weathered leather strap, a head forged from hammered scrap and tempered steel, with a line coiled in a stubborn loop at the nose. On the stock, a sigil—an ember swallowing a leaf—flickers faintly, a whisper that the fire within is not merely decorative but tethered to a living glow. The rumor mill swallows the tale with a smile. The wood itself is said to grow where heat and forest collide, a rabid whisper of growth that remembers flame. The “of Fire” tag isn’t vanity; it marks a bond between wood and sigil that makes the shot bite with a heat a little too eager to linger. When the weapon fires, the harpoon buries with a hiss, the air around it souring into a little pocket of flame that clings to targets, burning with a stubborn, bright persistence. Those who’ve watched barge crews and river scavengers rely on it tell of hull-checking strikes and tethered lines that yank at a proud length, pulling a foe off balance as the blaze blooms like a stubborn morning glow. In the field, its significance unfolds like a river’s memory. It’s not the light, quick-kissed strike of a pistol but a deliberate, heavy tool that demands patience, leverage, and timing. The Rabid Green Wood Harpoon Gun of Fire is prized by skippers and salvagers who live by the waterline and by fighters who need something that can crack a stubborn hull or pin a foe against a railing long enough for a follow-up. Its fire-infused punch can disrupt charge routes and break a skirmish’s rhythm, turning a tense standoff into a controlled, burning moment that reshapes how a tide of enemies moves. It’s the sort of weapon that earns a place in a crew’s stories—and in their combat logs—because it changes the tempo of the fight and the fate of the salvage. As I moved through the stalls, a trader leaned close, lips twisting with half a joke and half a math problem. The price was right for a piece with this history, he said, a value that would ride well with the Saddlebag Exchange ledger, where old wares pass from hand to hand and barter becomes a language of trust. We spoke in the currency of gold and hard-won pelts, of a few favors owed to captains who’ve hauled nets full of ash and ember. The deal would live on the Exchange’s list, a line item that told future buyers a tale of wood that burns and a fire that will not be easily silenced.