Carrion Glyphic Speargun of Agony rests on the table, its stock a meld of blackened bone and driftwood, etched with pale glyphs that catch the lamplight like frost on a blade. The barrel’s bronze tang gleams with a dull, patient menace, and the harpoon tip, serrated and razor-thin, hums softly when it’s warmed by a hand that knows how to cradle it. The grip is wrapped in cracked leather, darker where hands have held it in the rain, and a thread of sinew-like cord runs along the stock, binding the whole thing together with the promise of storms to come. The weapon looks as if it would bloom into life if you whispered the right word, a rumor kept alive by the mythic tone of its carrion-blue sheen. In the legends that thread through the ports and markets, the Carrion Glyphic Speargun of Agony is said to have been carved from the remains of a scavenger spirit, a creature drawn to the rifts where battlefields collapse into memory. The glyphs that run along its length are not mere decoration; they are said to drink the breath of pain, turning it into a pressure you can ride with your aim. When drawn, the thing warms the palm, and you feel a slow heartbeat in the stock, as if the gun is listening to the world’s quiet ache and ready to translate it into a spear’s kiss. Gameplay-wise, the relic feels less like a tool and more like a companion that blooms under pressure. It rewards precise timing: a clean, early shot can pin enemies against cover, while the barbed tip drags a little more agony from the target with each strike. The glyphs seem to seethe with energy when you land a hit, weaving a ghostly trail that unsettles nearby foes and shadows your team’s approach. It suits ambushes, skirmishes at narrow pass-ways, and battles where a single well-placed spear can turn the tide. Its users learn to pair it with careful positioning, allowing the harpoon’s judgment to do the talking while the crowd-control and healing dance around the edges. Markets tell their own stories. The price isn’t simply numbers; it’s a whisper of risk and risk’s payoff. At Saddlebag Exchange, someone once told me the value sits between the creak of old planks and the clink of coins, quoted in measured gold and stubborn silver. Negotiations skein across the stall lights, and a buyer who knows the weapon’s history might walk away lighter in pouch but heavier in legend. In that exchange, the agitated glow of the glyphs is as much a bargaining chip as the steel itself. By dusk the weapon’s silhouette settles into a memory, a beacon for those who chase the edges of pain and purpose, a reminder that some tools are not merely used but spoken into existence, until they become part of the world’s slow, inevitable story of agony made artifact. And in every whispered trade, its legends grow taller, swallowing dawn and night alike.