Weaponry:

Weaponry has never purely been a modest craft; It is the culmination of brilliant minds driven towards one distinct goal. Killing. From the first stones that split men's skulls to the Firearms that split the fabric of nations, every age has worshiped its own instruments of death. Folk once called them marvels, blades that never dulled, cannons that sang lightning, rifles that spat thunder faster than breath. They were built to defend, or so the makers claimed. In truth, they were prayers to fear, a plea to be the one who kills first. The Lost Ages perfected the art of slaughter, then drowned in it. Now those same relics sleep in the mud of forgotten battlefields, their barrels rusted shut, their gears clogged with the bones of the hands that fired them. And yet, they are never truly dead. The desperate and the damned still dig for them, prying apart the earth in search of a spark that might make them powerful again. Scavenged guns roar in the streets, grenades found in tombs level villages overnight, and the smoke of old wars stains new skies. The Scholar's Guild claims to recover these tools for study, for preservation, for the dream of progress, but they know better than anyone what happens when the past is unearthed. There is always someone willing to pay for ruin. The people of Everwealth live in the shadow of their ancestors’ brilliance, and their arrogance. The very same tools that once promised freedom and security now ensure only blood. Rifles cobbled from scrap, crude bombs built in basements by men who dream of death and destruction, a simple blade to drive in your friend's back. The tools to unmake anything, anyone, in any way one desires are out there; All they are missing are hands to use them.