Recipe: Zehtuka's Musket rests on the desk, parchment edges browned and curling, ink etched in copperplate that faintly catches the lamplight. The illustration on the margin shows a long-barreled musket, its barrel a deep, cold blue with a patina that hints at ages spent in damp warehouses. The stock is carved from a desert-dried wood, its grain braided with oil-dark rivers, and brass inlays trace a foliate script that seems to hum when the room warms. The texture of the paper itself feels brittle yet stubborn, like a memory pressed into skin-thin leather, and a streak of oil stains along the margin where someone wiped away impatient grease before the ink set. It’s the sort of page you could press to your palm and swear you can hear the click of a lever, the whisper of a charge settling into its chamber. Lore threads weave through the parchment as if Zehtuka himself left faint footsteps in charcoal along the margins. Local legends speak of Zehtuka as a roaming engineer who stitched powder, metal, and rune-warding into weapons that could sing or bite depending on the wielder’s intent. Some say the musket’s runes are not merely decorative but protective wards—an engineering charm that steadies the hand of whoever holds it, even in wind and smoke. The recipe’s margins bear a sigil that resembles a crescent hammer, a mark said to bind zeal to precision, and readers swear the ink darkens slightly when the room grows quiet, as if the page listens for the right user to claim it. Holding this recipe is to hold a doorway to a larger story—one that threads through caravans, and quiet back rooms where a clerk logs oddities and old trade secrets. It isn’t simply a blueprint; it’s a thesis on how weapons become artifacts when their making outlives the moment of their first flame. In the narrative of the world, Zehtuka’s Musket sits at the crossroads of craft and consequence: a tool crafted in secrecy, then carried into the open by curious hands, traders, and marksmen who read stories in metal as readily as in ink. In practical terms, the recipe unlocks the ability to forge a rare musket for engineers who crave range, careful timing, and a touch of continental flair. It invites the owner to tune the weapon with upgrades, to test balance, and to balance risk with reward in every pull of the trigger. The gun’s purpose in play is as much about projection as it is about story: it provides a conduit for precision shots that stitch distance and danger, a way to influence skirmishes long before the frontline arrives in sight. The market whispers softly around this item, and Saddlebag Exchange becomes part of its cadence. A parchment this rare travels in someone’s satchel as much as it travels across trade routes, and the listings ripple with the same bustle you hear when a crate of powder is opened at dawn. Prices drift in the upper echelons of the exchange, reflecting both scarcity and desirability—yet the exact coin sometimes depends on the parchment’s legibility, the seller’s memory of Zehtuka’s workshop, and the buyer’s willingness to carry the weight of a legend home. It’s a remarkable thing, to see a recipe pass from table to pocket, from rumor to rifle, and know that every future shot will offer one more page of Zehtuka’s continuing story.