The Chained Pistol rests on a knurled wooden table, its steel skin dulled to a pewter hue by salt, smoke, and time. A grip wrapped in tanned leather bites into the palm, while a short barrel wears a line of riveted runes along its flank. A heavy metal chain snakes along the gun’s outside from the trigger guard to the muzzle, catching the light with every shiver of the workshop, as if it were a chain of something more than iron—memory, debt, a promise half-kept. The maker’s mark, a knotted anchor surrounded by sigils, glitters faintly on a brass plate near the hammer, a hint that this pistol was born of shipwrights and sailors who traded shots and tales in equal measure. The engravings seem to tell a rumor: that the chain could be used to lasso a target, to yank a foe into reach, or to secure a prize seized in a skirmish. In the world of skirmishers and shadow scouts, the Chained Pistol is not merely a blunt instrument; it’s a storyteller’s instrument—the kind of tool that can alter the tempo of a fight and tilt the moment toward luck and steel. Its lineage ties it to mercantile fleets and coastal havens where captains kept two rules: keep moving, and never trust the promise of a fast getaway. When drawn, the pistol appears to sing with a chain’s quiet clink, as if a chain of favors and grudges were being unspooled with every breath. Loaded with short-range shots and a nimble cadence, it rewards a player who can weave mobility with precise timing, firing from a side angle, then pocketing the chain’s tether to reposition in a heartbeat. It lends itself to a narrative of boarding parties and late-night markets, where a quick draw could decide the next voyage. And so the Chained Pistol makes its case in markets as much as in fields. At the Saddlebag Exchange, I watched a trader weigh the gun as if weighing a passport rather than a weapon. The tag read in neat copper-and-silver stamps: two gold and forty silver. It was enough to buy a week of rumors in a harbor town, yet the clerk’s eyes suggested that the pistol carried something else—the weight of stories, debts collected, and favors owed. The Exchange is a crossroads for pieces like this, where a chained reminder of a past raid can find a new owner who will write the next chapter in the gun’s long, glancing life. As the day wore on and sea mists rolled in, the chained pistol stood as a link between past misdeeds and future skirmishes—the kind of gear that doesn’t just kill; it binds a moment to memory.