Rampager's Steam Speargun of Corruption rests on the counter like a patient monster, brass and copper laid bare, pistons ticking softly as if it were breathing. The stock is carved from dark, weathered wood, worn smooth where a hand would grip it, and the metalwork wears a patina that catches every lamplight flicker. A steam vent curls from the barrel, braided lines snaking along the length like a living vine, and a row of small runes—emerald green and humming faintly—runs the gun’s flank in a serpentine script. The spearhead protrudes from the muzzle, gleaming with a brutal precision, as if it had learned to listen to the stories whispered by every battlefield it has crossed. It looks heavy and elegant at once, a relic forged in the furnace of conflict, the Corruption name etched into a brass tag that dangles with a faint clink when the gun shifts in your grip. The finish is not merely decoration; it feels as if the weapon has absorbed the stubborn, stubborn wind of the blighted zones, a texture both cold and alive to the touch. When you cradle it, you hear the old engine’s sigh—the way steam remembers to sleep between the hammering of battles. A first shot sends a harpoon arcing forward with a hiss, as if a leviathan’s breath had been coaxed into steel. The spearhead bites through armor and wood alike, and the test target shudders as a green afterglow crawls across its skin, a trace of corruption that lingers like a memory the body would rather forget. The weapon’s aura threads through a skirmish: you aren’t just firing a projectile; you’re delivering a message that something outside ordinary rules is happening here. It doesn’t merely pierce; it unsettles, unsettles, then punctures a rhythm you didn’t know you’d need to steal back. Lore threads weave around it the moment you lift it higher: forged by a convoy of Rampager engineers who believed that blighted energy could be corralled, tamed for a purpose beyond mere destruction. The Corruption sigils were tempered with leather and steam, a paradoxical balance between decay and drive. In the old days, it cut a line through corrupted automata and desperate raiders alike, the kind of weapon that makes a storyteller stop counting kills and start counting how many times a single shot changed a moment’s fate. The more you learn, the more the gun feels less like equipment and more like a character in a vast, unwieldy epic—the kind you can hold in your hand and still hear the echoes of their marching boots. In practice, its value isn’t only in raw damage; it’s how the weapon channels tempo, forcing enemies to relocate and exposing openings for a sharper strike. It rewards patience and pace, the way a river learns to coil before a flood. And in the pulse of a market day, you’ll hear hushed conversations about its worth as a prize piece—how much someone would pay to own a gun that seems to carry a weathered history in every notch and rivet. Saddlebag Exchange has it listed in a ledger that glimmers with brass and ink—three gold and a handful of silver, the curators whisper, though plenty will trade stories for a chance to swing it. The deal may be sealed, the carriage wheels turning away, but the Rampager’s Steam Speargun of Corruption never truly leaves the moment it was first lifted; it stays in the air between purpose and memory, a bright artifact that makes the world feel both larger and older than the moment you first pressed the trigger.