Dragonbone Pistol

Dragonbone Pistol rests on the table like a small relic of a dragon’s memory, its grip carved from pale, cool bone that fits the hand as if it were born to be held. The barrel glints with a tempered shine, a dark bloom of metal that catches the light in purple echoes, as if a heartbeat travels through the steel. Reliefs run along the frame—coilwork of scales, a swallow of flame—and the trigger guard lingers in the shape of a dragon’s open jaws, as if inviting your finger to answer a question only speed can resolve. When you tilt it, you can feel a tremor under the bone, the weapon whispering of hunts past and quiet metallurgical kisses that sealed bone into a gun that can bite without a sound. Lore threads through that texture like a fine seam. It is said the dragonbone used here came from a creature long believed to be a tale told by campfires—one whose breath stitched storms and whose bones carried the memory of ash and ember. Master smiths, who learned to temper fear into steel, forged this pistol to honor such memory, cooling the bone until it held its shape as if it remembered every battle, every retreat, every unspoken vow of protection. The engravings glow faintly when the weapon’s magic hums to life, giving the pistol a presence beyond its practical purpose—an agent of subtle storytelling as much as a tool for the road. In the heat of skirmish, its significance grows from ornament to necessity. The Dragonbone Pistol doesn’t merely fire; it anchors a hunter’s rhythm. Its shots arrive with an economy of motion—fast, precise, almost telegraphed by the way the hammer curls back and the ember-runed lines flare. It rewards a practiced hand that can flick from target to target, weaving through foes with a dancer’s balance, not by brute force alone. For the marksman who scouts openings, the pistol’s light frame becomes a liability to no one: a weapon that lets you slip between lantern shadows, fireoff a couple of clean rounds, then melt away again before the echo of retaliation settles. In crafted hands, it becomes a storyteller’s instrument, writing short lines of fate in the air with each spark and smoke trail. Markets around the caravan routes drink in such stories, and the price grows from the tale as much as from the steel. It’s not merely a question of numbers but of the story you’re willing to tell with it—how many dragons’ memories you’re prepared to carry, how much you trust your instincts to guide the shot. In the busy lanes where traders barter under striped awnings, the Saddlebag Exchange keeps a pulse on those prices, a ledger’s whisper that travels with the wind. A well-kept Dragonbone Pistol—its finish still bright, its runes still singing faintly—will find a buyer who respects its weight of history and its promise of quick, clean dispatch. A rougher one might drift down to the stall’s edge at a bargain, but the true prize remains the same: a weapon that feels as much a keepsake as a tool, a bridge between dragon memories and the road ahead.