Carrion Darksteel Imbued Inscription

The Carrion Darksteel Imbued Inscription gleams with a dull iron-black sheen, a palm-sized plate etched with bone-white sigils that ripple across its surface like frost on a windowpane. Its texture is cool and slightly rough to the touch, as if the metal remembers every kiss of a blade and every rumor spoken in the dark. Carved along the rim are tiny carrion-bird motifs—a raven’s wing, a hollow-eyed skull, a chain of minute teeth—an aesthetic that speaks of necromantic bargains and old pacts inked beneath candlelight. In the center sits a shallow circle, ringed with austere runes whose inner glow shifts from pewter to violet when the room grows quiet, as if the inscription itself breathes at the edge of sound. The script is crisp and purposeful, the marks arranged with the patient precision of a master who has learned the cost of every promise, a relic tied to a forgotten order that believed steel could cradle the dead while the living drew breath. In the lore stitched into its edges, this inscription is said to bind a fragment of carrion spirit into the metal, forging a tether between decay and durability. Those who have glimpsed its power tell of whispers at the corner of perception and a chill that lingers long after a clash ends. It is not merely a charm but a pact: a steel seal that invites lifeforce to ride the edge of a weapon’s strike, turning heat into resilience and shadow into sustenance. The inscription’s aura swells when paired with certain traits—an invitation to necromancer and renegade alike to craft a story where metal and memory share the same breath. In practical hands, it becomes a rare tool for those who chase survivability and tempo, softening the line between offense and endurance, letting a blade drink what life it can even as it draws blood. Markets tell their own stories, and here the inscription travels as a whispered rumor threaded through pockets and saddlebags. At Saddlebag Exchange, an old market stall that trades in relics both coveted and cursed, traders speak of this piece with a mix of reverence and caution. The price threads through gold coins and silver dust depending on the moon and the mood of the week—the sort of fluctuation that makes a cautious buyer double-check the weight of a coin purse before closing a deal. On a bright spring morning, a broker might pause over a braced counter and name a figure around five to seven gold, hinting at rarity and the peril of sourcing distant vaults. On other days, whispers of supply from distant coasts push the ledger toward four gold or, when demand spikes in tense markets, toward eight. A seat-by-the-window buyer could walk away with a story and a purchase, the exchange of care and currency as much a ritual as the engraving itself. And so the Carrion Darksteel Imbued Inscription moves through the world like a kept secret: a weight in a pocket, a glimmer in a workshop, a pact waiting to be invoked. In every handshake, every trade, in every glint from its darkened face, it promises that even in decay there can be a form of renewal—one crafted not from gold alone, but from the quiet barter between danger and dependence, between forge and fate.