Knight's Hard Wood Harpoon Gun rests on a salt-slick table, its stock carved from a single, stubborn piece of hardwood, dark as a storm-beaten plank and smooth as a well-loved oar. The grain curls like tide pools, and a lacquered layer catches the light with a muted gloss. Brass fittings bite at the seams, a winch wheel sits beneath a knurled grip, and the harpoon head, forged in iron, gleams with a frost-blue patina where salt has worked its slow magic. Runes are inlaid along the stock—simple knots and a quiet sigil of a knightly house—whispering of duty, duty to the sea, duty to those who sail into the fog without fear. It is heavy enough to feel like a promise when it rests against a shoulder, and it carries the smell of tar, canvas, and rain. In hands, the weapon feels like a conversation with the ocean. The trigger snaps with a ring that echoes along the dock, and the rope coiled beside the barrel tastes of salt and ozone. A single pull lands a stout harpoon that bites into wood or flesh with equal resolve. The harpoon line has a memory—the way it twines around a mast, the way it stops a charging kraken’s kin in its tracks—this is the sort of tool that becomes part of a sailor’s fate rather than merely a weapon. Its uses are practical and poetic: anchor a skittish market boat to weather a squall, reel in a broken hull for salvage, pin a towering foe to the deck long enough for friends to close in, or simply parry with a length of rope tight enough to threaten a shadow. The Knight’s Harpoon is not only hardware; it carries a story. Craftsmen from the coastal wards claimed the wood from trees that grew where the knightly banners once guarded lighthouses. They etched those runes to remind the bearer that courage must be pulled into line, that power without restraint grows wild as seaweed. In play, the gun rewards timing and positioning: a well-aimed shot can tether a target, break a lineup, or expose a vulnerable flank as teammates surge forward. It’s the kind of tool that turns a routine voyage into a chapter of urban legend—the dockside tavern buzzing with talk of the knightly order, the watchers who keep the sea lanes safe, the families who trade their catch in the morning light. At Saddlebag Exchange it is a rarity, priced with the patience of a harbor master who’s watched tides rise and fall. In whispers and in coins, silver traded for copper until it shines, the gun moves through hands as sailors move through fog. Expensive enough to demand respect, cherished by those who know the weight of a line. So the gun becomes more than a tool—a link between sea-fear and sea-song, a memory of knights who vowed to guard harbor and heart. Its shade lingers in the mind of every dockhand who has heard a harpoon sing in a storm.