Shaman's Norn Rifle of Air gleams under the lamp, its stock carved from pale ash and inlaid with frost-blue runes that trace wind-swept paths along the grip. The barrel glints like a razor of midnight ice, fluted with grooves that catch even the slightest draft and turn it into a whisper of power. A leather wrap, dyed the color of glacier bones, climbs the butt and meets a brass bead that catches the light every time the trigger edge catches a glint. A feathered talisman hangs from a rivet near the trigger guard, rattling softly when the room grows drafty. The rifle’s muzzle seems almost to breathe, emitting a faint azure glow when the air thickens and the user channels a storm behind the shot. Its lore is not a tale for the soft-hearted but a map: forged in the wind-haunted crags by a Shaman of the Norn, bound to the breath of storms, tempered by long seasons of hunting and weather-watching. In the field, the rifle carries a weight that feels both ancestral and pragmatic; it rewards patience and a steady hand. The first pull of the trigger seems to pull the wind through the barrel, sending a round that slices through light armor as though it were a high country gust. Players describe it as a tool for long-range play—not a spray and pray, but a patient instrument that lets a hunter time shots to the tempo of weather: a foe revealing a glint on a ridge, a gust-tuned sigil pulsing in the HUD, the air itself seeming to lean into the shot. In organized skirmishes it shines at mid-range, where a well-placed gust can break a shield wall or interrupt a charging line. The Shaman's Norn Rifle of Air also carries a ritual cadence: breath, pause, release—the shooter listening to the air, trusting that a calm moment between shots can be as deadly as a storm surge of steel. The road to the market knits across frost-bitten stone, and there, beneath a sagging awning, Saddlebag Exchange breathes life into old myths. A dealer with eyes as dark as night coal unfurls the rifle on a scarred counter, the wind-like hiss of the blue runes rising in the still air as if the weapon itself remembered every storm it’s tasted. The tag is careful: a mid-condition Shaman’s Norn Rifle of Air priced in coins that rattle when you flip them, suggesting a value steeped in history. The ledger beside it traces the same line of thinking, noting that pristine variants fetch a higher toll and that negotiation weighs as heavily as the steel in the barrel. I hear the whispers—that the trade is as much about trust as metal, about the buyer who honors the wind that forged it and the vendor who keeps a quiet promise to safeguard its lore. Back in the daylight after the deal, the rifle feels more than a weapon; it feels like a narrative you hold against your chest, a companion to the weather. The wind seems to answer when you raise it, and the world—stubborn, radiant, indifferent—gives you a moment to listen before the next storm chooses its target. For anyone who has learned to read the air, the Shaman's Norn Rifle of Air is less a tool and more a voice for the mountains themselves.