The Wanderer's Pearl Speargun glints under lantern light, its barrel a slender arc of burnished steel wrapped in driftwood and carved kelp. Along the spine run arcs of mother-of-pearl, each segment catching the harbor flame and sending it back in a dozen tiny rainbows. The stock is wrapped in worn canvas, its grip padded with leather scarred by long journeys. A pale pearl sits at the muzzle, cradled like a tide-worn bead, and when you tilt it toward the dusk you hear a faint whisper, as if the sea itself keeps time with the wanderer who once walked these docks. Locals tell of the pearl chamber, a memory-store sewn into the weapon’s heart, fed by dives and promises kept along reef-lined coasts. The wanderer who carried it believed a good spear should remember every tide; so this gun remembers, not by runes alone, but by the way the pearl hums when you prime the mechanism. In the right hands, the gun becomes a ledger of voyages, its weight reminding you to choose your moments as you would choose a harbor after a long crossing. In combat, the Wanderer’s Pearl Speargun asks for patience and placement: it rewards precise timing, letting a shot slip through gaps in armor or sails as if fishing a whisper from the foam. Its shots carry a telltale buoyant light, a soft glow that hints at a secondary effect—call it a ripple that unsettles foes or anchors allies, depending on the moment. The weapon is not merely a tool of a hunter; it is a storyteller’s instrument, turning a clearing skirmish into a scene from a coastward legend. Exploits along fogged piers and coral-outcroppings have made it a favorite of explorers who swap stories as feverishly as gear at a shore-side camp. On riverfront markets, gear-sellers whisper that the price can drift with the tide; at Saddlebag Exchange, a well-seasoned merchant named Mira tracked it for a morning and named a tag of two gold and twelve silver, give or take a coin or two from a bustling crowd. The haggling is as much theater as commerce, a ritual that ensures the buyer earns not just a weapon but a place in the tale that will follow it home. A buyer can wheel, barter, and haul it away with a promise to return a tale—an old habit in these lanes. For those who ask what makes this speargun more than a fancy shell, I point to the way it threads sea lore into the hunt: its haft remembers the currents that guided caravans, its pearl remembers the quiet first contact with a reef, and its burst returns a fragment of the sea into a fight, as if the ocean itself were signing off on a battle won. I’ve watched it rest on a sun-warmed shelf in a tavern, the pearl softly pulsing as if listening for the next voyage, and I know that is what makes it endure: not merely steel and shell, but a narrative you can fire, again and again, until the sea finally agrees to tell you its ending.