Black Brine

The Gunderson home is where precision meets powder, and fraternal love sounds a lot like shouting. One brother crafts bows so fine they hum with tension. The other builds guns that cough thunder and spite. Together, they supply Black Brine’s best—and argue like it’s a sport with no off-season. Every merc, pirate, and duelist worth their salt has walked that cobbled path, either for a custom grip or to settle a feud with steel or shot. Deals are struck in sawdust and smoke, payments taken in coin, favors, or grudging respect. In a city where ranged weapons mean survival—or advantage—the Gundersons don’t just sell tools. They sell the promise that the next shot might be the one that changes everything. And if it jams? Well, you can always blame the other brother.

The Gunderson house hunches low on its hill, like it’s bracing for the next argument. Vines claw at the eaves, white hydrangeas bloom stubborn as weeds, and a weathered sign swings above the gate: *String & Power*. One half smells of sap and patience—quiet, clean, the scent of pine and purpose. The other side stinks of smoke, scorched leather, and things recently exploded. Approach from the north and you’ll see delicate carvings in the shutters, arrow shafts stacked like firewood. From the south, it’s soot-black walls, shattered target boards, and a half-melted bell that no longer rings. Between them: a central hall where splinters of both lives meet—a hearth, a cluttered table, two chairs no one ever sits in at the same time. Together, the place feels tense as a drawn bowstring. Step careful. You’re either walking into a shop, a genius’s den, or a brotherly brawl with sharp edges and live powder.