The Knight's Charged Stormcaller Rifle rests in the palm of a gloved hand, its barrel slender and gleaming, etched with frost-blue runes that ripple like heat on a hot skillet. Copper bands coil around the wood, catching lantern light and throwing it back in short, bright sparks. The stock is a dark, weathered ebony, scarred by years of aim and rain, yet perfectly smooth where the grip settles. A knight’s crest is inlaid at the butt, flanked by etched clouds and a looping coil that seems almost to breathe when the weapon is upright. The muzzle wears a ring of frost-traced metal that hums with a quiet, electric tinder—as if the storm itself lingers just beyond the steel, waiting for a precise breath to unlock it. That scent of old valor isn’t mere ornament. Legends speak of a knightly order who learned to coax tempests into purpose, binding sky-fire to steel through careful discipline and a promise kept under salt-wind skies. The rifle’s lore threads through wrecked fortresses and rain-swept river crossings, where a storm broke and the bearer stood firm, guiding raw power into a single, clean strike. It isn’t a weapon designed to rage; it is a conduit—a story etched in metal and wood—that reminds its wielder that even the wildest weather can be invited to stand still, if only for a heartbeat, for the shot that follows. In the field, the Stormcaller performs as if it were two weapons in one. A charged shot flashes with a crackle, a bolt of electricity leaping from the muzzle toward its target and then fanning out into a narrow arc that seeks nearby foes. The moment the bolt lands, a pulse of blue light threads outward, and any unlucky opponents caught in its wake feel a sting that seems to carry the cold bite of a northern storm. Used well, it becomes a rhythm: eyes on the horizon, breath steady, the first hit thinning a frontline, the second hit fanning sparks across a group, and a final third thrust keeping the tempo of the fight from rushing ahead without you. Its power rewards precision, patience, and a storyteller’s sense of timing—each shot a line in a broader ballad about who stands in the rain and who dances around the lightning. Markets in between marches are where its price becomes a living thing, shifting with rumor and season. I wandered into Saddlebag Exchange as dawn painted the docks with pale gold, traders’ voices wrapping around crates like sea-salted ropes. The Knight’s Charged Stormcaller Rifle sat among other relics, its glow steady though faint, a sign of something kept rather than worn. The vendor named it plainly, a fair figure told in coins, and the price carried the weight of years—the sort of sum that makes sense only when you’re counting the value of stories. Those coins could be traded, bartered, or earned in a dozen hard miles, and the exchange offered a cushion of confidence: a market that understood that this rifle didn’t merely kill a target, but tied a moment of weather to a lifetime of memory. When you lift it, you don’t just lift a weapon—you lift a pact with the skies. The Knight’s Charged Stormcaller Rifle is a rare instrument that makes the storm feel near enough to touch, a reminder that in a world built of stone, steel, and rain, some storms are meant to be carried forward.