Storm's Eye Pistol sits on the edge of a weather-beaten workbench, its barrel a smooth cobalt that seems to drink light and flicker with a pale blue pulse. The grip is wrapped in salt-stung leather, worn to the touch, with faint stitching that stitches the memory of storms into every hand that holds it. The metal is etched with spiraling sigils—tiny currents carved in brass and steel—while a small cyclone motif loops along the frame, the centerpiece being a glassy “eye” set near the hammer that glows when the chamber hums with charge. It looks as if a small storm could be poured into it, if one ever learned to coax such a thing from wind and will. Lorekeepers whisper that Storm's Eye Pistol was forged by storm-smiths who learned to bend weather into weaponry, binding the essence of a hurricane into a tightly coiled chamber. The eye is more than ornament; it is a focusing lens for air-born energy, a reminder that even a quiet moment can crack open into a thunderclap. Those who wield it speak of precision that feels almost athletic, of a tension in the air that says: wait, and then release a spark that travels as a thin blue thread to the target—and possibly beyond. In the heat of skirmish, the pistol earns its keep not merely with speed but with storytelling. A shot cracks, a line of light arcs toward a foe, and if the pilot times it right, the energy flickers again to a second enemy, as if the storm itself was trash-talking the battlefield and choosing its targets in mid-syllable. Its charges reward patient, careful play: quick-draw bursts that punch through cloth and mail alike, or charged shots that weave a small electric path across the group, forcing enemies to scatter or burn with sudden, bright vulnerability. It’s not just a weapon; it’s a narrative device, a way to turn a sudden encounter into a tale of a single eye watching over the rain, counting the beats between thunder and strike. Prices drift with the wind and the whim of markets, rumor and barter shaping what a Storm’s Eye might fetch. I’ve watched a buyer lean over a stall’s counter, listening to the vendor’s numbers drift from low to surprising, coins clinking against the wooden rail as topics of luck and legend rise and fall. Across the market, a traveler points toward Saddlebag Exchange, where stories as much as salvaged gear circulate and where a weapon’s value is weighed not only by its damage but by the weight of its history. The ledger there seems to breathe among the wagons, shifting with the afternoon breeze, and the stall keeper’s eyes glint when the Storm’s Eye passes hands, as if the skies themselves had approved the exchange. This pistol is more than metal and magic. It is a knot in the fabric of the world, a reminder that storms come and go, but the eye remains—watchful, charged, and ready to write the next storm into the field. When it’s in your grip, you feel the weather listening, and you know the next encounter won’t be just another fight; it will be a story sparked by the turn of a hitching rope and a single, bright shot.