Strong Speargun rests on a weather-worn display plank, its barrel a seamless cylinder of patinated bronze that hums with a faint, creaking life when the lamp catches it. The stock is carved from dark teak, the grain curled like a storm-tossed sea; a lacquered finish, dulled by salt, rubs under the fingers. A brass trigger guard gleams, and a loop of oil-dark leather wraps the grip, worn smooth from countless hands. Along the length of the gun, runes are etched in a careful script, a tide-flushed alphabet promising steadiness and distance. The harpoon head protrudes from the end, heavy and barbed, teeth of steel that glint as if ready to bite into the first hard target the ocean sends ashore. Where the wood meets metal, a seam is sealed with resin that smells faintly of pine and brine; to touch it is to feel the hand of a craftsman who balanced sway and recoil into one hopeful push. It is the kind of weapon you imagine tucked into a captain’s coat before night at sea, or gifted to a salvager who has learned to read the tide as you read a map. Older sailors tell of a line of keepers who carved these spearguns from ship timbers salvaged at a wreck that lies beneath a reef known as the Tooth of the World. The runes are not mere decoration; they are a mnemonic, a warning that the gun tastes salt and memory, that the sea will lend you a steadier aim if you listen. In the world these days, the Strong Speargun is a practical talisman as much as a tool. It trades the soft whisper of a dart for the hard kiss of a harpoon, capable of punching through stubborn shields and snagging a line across a churning deck. Vendors speak of its balance like a craftsman’s compliment: you shoulder it and feel the weight settle into your ribs, as if the gun were already part of you, ready to answer a summons from a reef or a wreck. Divers prefer it when the spray becomes false friend and the currents demand patience; pirates and smugglers alike respect the reach and the restraint it offers when a fight must move from shore to skiff and back again. It’s the sort of instrument that makes a story out of a skirmish: a single disciplined shot that turns a push into a retreat, a maneuver that buys room for the crew to haul something precious up from the seabed. On the quay, the Saddlebag Exchange hums with voices and the clang of crate lids, a market where memory and metal collide. A weathered clerk pages through a ledger, then nods at the price tag traded in copper and coin: a clean Strong Speargun can fetch around two gold, depending on how the runes glow in the lamp and how the resin still holds its scent of resin and sea. A salvage crew captain twists the stock, weighing history against utility, trading stories as much as currency, trading the gun’s provenance for a promise to deliver a fresh batch of rope and nets. The exchange isn’t merely a shop—it’s a tide pool of pawed memories and practical bargains, where every purchase binds a new chapter to an old voyage. To own the Strong Speargun is to inherit a fragment of the ocean’s patience, a tool that remembers every storm while you decide your next move.