The Repurposed Nail Gun sits on a dented workbench, its barrel dark with oil and time, the metal sleeves scarred by countless jobs and quick fixes. The grip is worn wood, lacquer dulled to a satin patina, bound in a patchwork strip of leather that once steadied a steady hand in rain and dust. A brass plate along the side bears a pale ghost of a guild crest, half-erased by smoke and travel, as though the tool itself carried a rumor of its origin. Nails peek from a circular magazine beneath a glass cap, arranged like a mischievous bouquet, and a stubborn spring shudders whenever the lever is nudged, promising a stubborn return to form even when the day has run warm and the air smells of oil and rust. The texture tells a story: pitted steel, a smudge of rust here and there, the occasional gleam where oil has laid down a slick, stubborn film that catches the light and makes the room feel suddenly alive with possibility. In its second life, the nail gun feels less like a salvage junkheap and more like a stubborn partner in a caravan’s defense. When you lift it, your fingers discover the balance between weight and aim, a tool that asks for patience and respect. Lore whispers that a factory foreman traded his own pride for this salvage, turning a production line’s stubborn grit into a weapon that could hold a doorway against a night raid. Its rounds, small as nails but sharp as rumor, bite into armor with a satisfying tick and spread a rain of sparks at the moment of impact. It’s not flashy, but it’s honest—an ugly little miracle born from the necessity of keeping a camp intact or a supply wagon moving through danger. The nail gun’s role in a larger story is not about glory; it’s about making do, turning scrap into shelter, and giving a weary traveler a chance to hold a line long enough to breathe. Travelers speak of it as a practical miracle tucked under a cloak or strapped to a saddlebow, a reminder that risk often travels with ingenuity. It is the kind of artifact you barter for in the open-air markets, where stories trade as easily as hardware. Saddlebag Exchange becomes the pulse of that exchange—merchants trading glinting leads and rusted promises with a grin, calculating risk the way a blacksmith would measure heat. There, the Repurposed Nail Gun finds its price in silver and copper, not in legend, yet every coin earned carries a line of tension in the tell: a tool that has saved a life, turned a doorway into a last stand, and proved that in this world, salvage is a craft and courage is a chosen lever. So the nail gun endures, a stubborn little engine of opportunity in a world that never quite gives you what you want, only what you can improvise with a steady hand, a few nails, and the nerve to aim true.