Knight's Stormcaller Rifle sits on the table, its stock a sweep of dark walnut stained with time and weather. Brass filigree coils along the receiver like a crown of lightning, catching the glow of the lamp and throwing it outward in tiny, buzzing halos. The barrel is wrapped in a lattice of steel and sigils, a cool, almost magnetic texture that hints at storms trapped within. A hinge-red line runs the length of the stock, and the sights—two minute prisms etched with knightly crescents—glow a pale blue when the air thickens with static. Its surface wears the patina of long journeys: a nick here, a smear there, a story pressed into every contour. When you lift it, the rifle feels heavy with memory, as if the monument to some old oath had been re-milled into a weapon that still remembers its weathered oath-breakers and their last thunderclap. Lore has always clung to the Knight's Stormcaller as though it were a living thing. Some say it was forged for a besieged order that prayed for a storm to break their lines, and that the weapon drank the lightning from the skies, storing it in the coil beneath the barrel. Others swear the rifle hums whenever a storm approaches, a low, dry crackle that travels along the wood and into the knuckles of the wielder. Regardless of the tale you believe, the feel of the rifle makes the coil sing: a measured, patient rhythm that builds toward a spark, a controlled eruption rather than a reckless blaze. In quiet moments, the gun seems to measure the wind and nod, as if the storm itself had handed you a map. In practical terms, the Stormcaller is a storyteller in combat. Its shots carry weight—long, precise pulls that bite at range and then release a surge of electricity that leaps from the primary target to nearby foes. It favors patience and positioning: aim true, charge the shot with a careful breath, and let the bolt bloom into a forked current that ties enemies together in a bright, sparking chain. Players who lean into synergy—using the rifle alongside a shield or a field that buffs durability, or pairing it with companions who can herd groups into the rifle’s arc—find the weapon becomes the hinge on which several encounters turn. A single thunderbolt can rip through a crowd, opening space for melee allies to close, or zip through a cap of armor to finish a skirmish with a final, resonant crack. The market in the winding lanes of the markets adds a further layer to the rifle’s story. I watched a trader caution a hopeful buyer about its price, leaning on a counter that bore the mark of Saddlebag Exchange. The clerks whispered of a steep but fair ask, negotiable with a tale, a trade good, or a future favor owed. The buyer, eyes bright with possibility, tucked a coin purse away and spoke of an expedition’s end—an exchange that would put the Knight’s Stormcaller into the hands of a new keeper who understood its power and its debt to the storm. And so the rifle endures, not just as a tool of war but as a vow kept and a legend passed along. Each shot writes a line in a longer storm-wide saga, a story of discipline, weather, and the quiet courage it takes to stand beneath the sky and let the thunder answer.