Mighty Steam Speargun gleams with tempered brass and weathered wood, its barrel a long oiled cylinder wrapped in copper bands. A glass chamber runs along the top, catching the harbor lamps as steam snakes inside, and a pressure gauge blinks like a wary star. The stock bears kelp-carved motifs, rivets shining with oil, and a leather grip worn smooth by years at sea. Spare harpoon heads ride in a small brass clip, and a brass plate bears a sailor’s motto: Fire well, keep steady. Salvaged from a wrecked hydro-dredge near drowned caverns, the gun carries a whisper of deeper waters in its metal. Lore says it was built by tinker-sailors who learned to coax thrust from steam and to lock a harpoon in a target’s wake with careful timing. In the right hands, it feels less like a weapon and more like a stubborn old ally—steadfast, patient, and ready to answer when the sea calls. On the battlefield, its power lies in range and precision. The Mighty Steam Speargun launches copper-tipped harpoons with a steam-charged push, bending trajectories to skim over shields and bite into armor. A well-timed charged shot can carve a path through a dense mob, while quick taps lay down a string of glimmering, steam-hissed projectiles that blur the air and force an enemy to choose between retreat or risk. It rewards calm, not chaos—patience rewarded with smooth, repeatable results rather than a single loud burst. Prices drift with the tide, and the port’s rumor mills never sleep. I watched a dealer at Saddlebag Exchange custody a gleaming cylinder of brass, then barter its value against a handful of coins and a ledger of stories. The deal wasn’t just about coin; it’s about the gun’s long memory—the sea-salt scent in the wood, the pressure gauge’s soft click, the way the harpoon head glints like a child’s favorite silver coin. The seller spoke of demand among divers and skippers who crave reliability in foul weather, and the buyer, with a wry grin, understood that this is more than hardware—it’s a promise of distance, of keeping danger at the edge of one breath and a careful aim. Sometimes I think that’s the thing the Mighty Steam Speargun represents: a link between trade routes and tide pools, between reckless bravado and quiet method. It’s a tool that turns the sea’s stubborn silence into a voice you can aim at, a conduit for stories carried home through ports and hauntings alike. And when the steam hisses once more as I shoulder it, I hear the harbor breathing with me, as if the gun itself is an old friend, always ready to remind us that every journey begins with a measured breath and ends with a new waypoint carved in brass.