Rabid Bronze Pistol of Fire

Rabid Bronze Pistol of Fire sits on a weathered display, its bronze skin blistered with pocks, each like a fossil of heat. The barrel narrows to a blackened crown, a seam of soot tracing its length. A wrap of tanned leather grips the handle, stitched with stubborn red thread that catches the light. The hammer gleams with a harsh orange tint, and etched runes along the spine spiral into a snarling fox crest that seems to move when you blink. The surface is lived-in, pitted and ash-filled, lacquered with oil until it shines like a hungry eye. When you lift it, the pistol carries the scent of powdered copper and campfire smoke, as if it expects action, as if it is listening for a story about to unfold. Legends say it was forged where volcanic gorges spill heat into the air, by a smith who believed fire should bite back at those who abuse it. The pistol carries a temperamental spark; its shots spit thin ribbons of flame that lick the air before finding their mark, leaving a scorch and a Burning on impact. In the field, it excels in close quarters, breaking shield walls with a sudden bloom of heat, or pinning down a retreating foe with a flare that lights the night. A clever wielder learns to pair the pistol with smoke and powder charges—an art of patience and timing—so a single shot becomes momentum: a pause, a blaze, and a last push through smoke. Market stalls tell a traveler more than any battlefield: Saddlebag Exchange hawks rare pieces like this with a hawk-eyed price and a pale, careful smile. I watched a veteran trader examine the pistol with gloved fingers, weighing weight and history against coin. He spoke in a low, even tone about a fair trade, and the price slid from estimates to a crisp sum of gold as if the pistol were a living thing that chose its buyer. At Saddlebag Exchange, such a pistol often changes hands for around 16 to 18 gold, depending on the buyer's nerve and the smith's memory. The weight of the metal in your palm makes a quiet argument with every breath you take, and you hear rumors in the rustle of the leather sheath. To own the Rabid Bronze Pistol of Fire is to carry a story as well as a weapon. Every caravan stop, firefight, or heated tavern talk becomes a chapter in its aging bronze. The world doesn’t simply respect its flame; it tells its tale—about the smith who swore the metal had teeth, about the raider who learned that a spark can decide a skirmish, about the peddler who counted coins and legends in the margins of a ledger. If you listen while it cools in your hand, you hear embers hiss and a promise: it won’t rest until it meets its next worthy with a fearless aim. That quiet thunder accompanies every shot it fires, and it never quite settles into silence.