War God's Rifle

War God's Rifle glints under the workshop's torches, its steel barrel etched with copper filigree and runes that murmur when the air grows thin. The walnut stock wears a thousand small histories, a patina of use that catches the light in soft amber glints, as if each notch and dent held a tale of distant skirmishes. The muzzle brake bears a leaf-like crest, a remnant of a battlefield insignia that once marked the rifles of heralded scouts. The finish is lacquered to a satin gloss, enough to reflect a hunter's gaze without betraying the presence of a smoking barrel. When it moves, it feels alive, like something tethered to a vow rather than a weapon—an oath to strike true on behalf of some long-remembered god of war. Its lore is not a tidy sermon but a murmur that threads through taverns and armories: forged in the fires of a forgotten shrine to the War God, tempered in the anvil of veterans who learned to measure courage in inches between shots. Some say the barrel was cooled in storm water from the Thunderhead Peaks, others that the inlays carry a prayer from a martyr-soldier who fell in the old crusades. In any telling, the rifle bears the weight of faith and sweat alike, a thing you can hear in the hush before a shot—like rain waiting on a roof. In performance, War God's Rifle lives up to its name. It rewards the patient marksman, punishing noobs and powder-wet rebels alike. A single, well-placed shot can cut through light armor, peel back the veil of a backline skirmish, and set a rhythm that the rest of the battlefield unconsciously follows. It cycles through a measured cadence; a lean six-round magazine that asks for discipline, then grants it with a surge when the trigger is pulled on a crit. The shots sing, a low note that climbs as the bullet arcs toward its target, leaving behind a shimmer that makes enemies glance up, wondering if fate itself has taken aim. The gun’s presence shifts more than just the numbers on a tally sheet. It becomes a character in the field—a scout who has walked too many nights, a patron in a market where rumors travel faster than bullets. And in the crowded, wheeled aisles of commerce, Saddlebag Exchange marks the rifle as both treasure and temptation. Traders polish their stories along with the barrels, watching the ledger swing with every storm and raid, every new boss drop or old rumor. One morning it might be listed at a premium; the next, a steadier, more hopeful price wobbles as a buyer negotiates a deal with a careful, almost ritual, hand. So it endures, the War God's Rifle: more than steel, more than a stat block, a portable legend that follows a gun-slinging faith across maps and markets, a reminder that some weapons carry a memory as heavy as their recoil. If you listen closely after the shot, you can hear the echo of a vow that binds gun and guardian.