Rampager's Iron Rifle of Debility sits on the workbench like a captured memory, its iron barrel catching the lamplight with a cold, steely gleam. The stock is a slab of dark ash, smoothed by countless hands, etched with sinewed lines that mimic a hunter’s grip about the world. Copper rivets wink along the breech, and a narrow band of runic inlay traces a story of the rampage—wolf-dark sigils that seem to pulse when the rifle is held just right. A leather strap is knotted to the butt, frayed at the edges from years of travel, as if the weapon itself has wandered through more markets than a caravan. The final touch is a faint, amber glow along the sights, a warning and invitation all at once: look here, and the world tilts toward danger. Locals tell a lean tale that the rifle was forged in a furnace beneath a ruined rampart, where iron sang against iron and the thunder of a siege still echoed in the hammer blows. They say a hunter-turned-legend named the rampager breathed his last bravado into the steel, binding it with a promise that it would debilitate enemies as surely as any wound. When the gun is fired, the air seems to tighten, as if the shot steals a breath from the foe and leaves them a moment slower, more wary, more ready to break under pressure. The Debility word is not just an enchantment but a rumor etched into the metal: a lure for chaos, a tether for courage, a tool that makes the user feel like they are threading a narrow line between triumph and ruin. In practical terms, Rampager’s Iron Rifle of Debility is a weapon of calculated precision. It rewards careful aim and timing, letting a skilled marksman poke at a target’s defenses and set up a brutal sequence: debilitate, then strike with follow-up shots or coordinated team damage. The rifle’s enhanced comportment in disciplined hands—its balance, its steady kick, the way the sights settle after each breath—encourages a playstyle that favors movement, patience, and calculated pressure rather than raw speed. It’s the kind of tool that turns a skirmish into a choreography: aim, debilitate, wait for the right moment, then unleash a fluent volley that makes the enemy flinch before they realize what’s happened. In the larger story of the world, it’s a reminder that one weapon can tilt a battlefield when wielded by someone who understands the weave of fear and courage. The market, as markets do, has its own gossip to share. In a sunlit stall at Saddlebag Exchange, a clerk named Elin draws a neat line through the ledger and taps the page with a knuckle, murmuring that a rifle like this trades for a solid sum, not a fortune, but enough to make a journey worthwhile. The closing figure—slightly negotiable, always negotiable—seems to hover between copper and silver on the page, with a note that the exact value shifts with stories attached. I watch the seller’s clipboard, hear the rustle of cloth and leather, and know the rifle will find a new owner who believes in the same quiet promise: that a single shot can bend fate, if only the world remains patient enough to listen.