Shaman's Etched Speargun of Rage catches the lamplight and the damp glow of salt-stung air, its brass barrel dark with oil-slick patina and the wood grip worn smooth by a thousand coastal hands. The stock curves like a tidal gouge, etched with geometric totems and a single jagged rune that travels from muzzle to butt. The mouth of the barrel bears a shallow relief of storm clouds, snarling waves, and a flame that shivers when you tilt it toward the sea. Leather thongs bind the grip, braided sinew binding faded beads and a shell shard that hums with memories of distant storms. In the right light it seems to wake, exhale a breath of brine and thunder, and slip back into the depths from which it came. Locals tell of a shaman who rode a tempest, binding Rage to tempered steel until it could speak in bursts of rain and iron. It was said the reefs remembered its coiled breath. The gun’s chamber stores a tempered fury, so every aim feels like listening to a roused beast; with a measured pull you release a harpoon of sea-fire that splits armor and rattles bones. Legends say the gun answers only to a worthy hand, one who can hear the world’s weather, who respects the breath between strike and counterstrike. When storms gather along a cliff-line, the Shaman's Etched Speargun of Rage is said to glow with a feverish orange, as if it borrowed light from lightning and kept it a moment longer than the cloud would allow. On the battlefield its uses stretch beyond the obvious: it rewards precise timing, lets you chain shots that stagger groups, or convert a single blast into a wave that pushes enemies off a platform. The etched runes glow brighter as Rage is channeled, tipping the weapon from a defensive poke to an aggressive leap. It is not merely a tool of war; it is a storyteller’s prop, a line in the world’s ongoing tale told through splinters of wood and arcs of brass. In the dockside markets whispers of its worth drift through the Saddlebag Exchange—the way a vendor’s eyes light on a gleaming finish, the way a buyer nods at the promise of a storm in their hands. A price moves as surely as the tide, sometimes cited in silver coins, sometimes negotiated in bundles of trade goods, depending on who promises the next gale. Some nights, when the harbor lies quiet, a ship’s bell rings and a merchant’s lantern casts a long glow over the weapon’s etched surface. The world remembers that it was forged not merely to pierce flesh, but to bind memory—the rage of a storm, the patience of a shaman, and the courage of a hunter—into a seawashed instrument that speaks softly if you listen, and shouts when the moment demands. To hold it is to accept a pledge: respect the sea's temper, know when to aim, and hear the old stories in every click of the hammer.