Salvo of the Lion's Champion

Salvo of the Lion's Champion rests on a velvet cloth, its bronze skin catching the lamplight and throwing a warm glow across the table. The barrel tapers to a fine point, etched with a running lion motif that leaps when you tilt it just so. The stock is wrapped in dark green leather, worn smooth by hands that have seen many campaigns, and a brass band winds around the grip like a kiss of luck. Along the length of the weapon, tiny runes—twisted sigils in gold and red—blink faintly when the room grows quiet, as if something within remembers every burst of fire it ever delivered. The lion's crest is hammered into the side, a proud silhouette that feels almost alive, the way the paws seem to cradle the weapon’s throat. It is heavy, but not unwieldy; it carries the weight of a story, a memory pressed into metal. They say it belonged to the Lion's Champion himself, or to one who stood in the Champion's shadow and learned to raise the world’s fate with a swing of the arm. In the lore stitched to its scarred leather, the Champion roared a warning to the coming storm, and the Salvo—a precise volley—answered with the thunder of iron and courage. When battle drums rolled off the harbor piers and men shouted across the water, this Salvo spoke for them, not with noise alone but with careful, measured flame: a weapon that punishes a line of foes, that shaves through light armor, that turns a crowded chokepoint into a chorus of silenced threats. The story goes that every bullet counts toward the chorus, and every chorus helps keep a village breathing through the night. In the hands of a careful hunter or a patient engineer, the Salvo becomes more than just metal and wood; it becomes strategy. Its fire settles into a controlled volley, then resets with the patience of a veteran captain, rewarding cunning over sheer luck. Players whisper that equipping it changes how you approach a fight—not as a reckless blaze of glory, but as a measured, repeating note in a larger harmony. The blade of a dragon’s memory, the shield of a neighbor’s story, and the roar of the Champion’s name braid themselves into the sound of each trigger pull. Pricing, of course, moves with the tides. In the bustle surrounding Saddlebag Exchange, a dealer named Maraun will tell you price is a weather, not a number—the wind shifts with festival cheer, or with a lull in dragon sightings. Today it sings at 16 silver and a memory shard; tomorrow, it may be a little kinder or a little sharper. Still, the lure remains: a relic with a pulse, a reminder that the Lion's Champion still speaks to those who listen, every time the Salvo is ready to fire.