Carrion Steam Dagger

The Carrion Steam Dagger glistens with a copper patina, the blade slender and thirsty-looking, steam sighing from a small vent near the tip as if metal itself is holding its breath. The edge is glass-smooth, etched with pale sigils that catch the light. The grip is wrapped in worn leather; the guard is bone-white and carved with motifs that resemble carrion birds pressed in on every side. A faint, sickly scent clings to it—iron and something resin-warm and old—as if the weapon carries memories of fever nights and long-quiet tombs. It feels alive in the hand, or at least as if history twitches behind the metal, waiting for the moment to exhale. Local lore ties it to a roving band of plague-smiths who moved along swamp routes to trade with coastal caravans. They spoke of steam as a preservation breath, of blades that could cut rot and still smell of rain and iron. The dagger's steam seems a sigh released on impact, a small warmth that unsettles foes and invites a bold follow-up. In quiet market corners, people whisper that this blade was tempered at the edge of a plague camp, where fear and mercy shared a single flame. On the field, Carrion Steam Dagger is a study in controlled aggression. It rewards precise, fast stabs and deft movement, because each hit can ignite a puff of steam that disorients or leeches life when paired with the right traits. In the hands of a swift thief or a necromancer who uses it to close gaps, the dagger becomes a tool for tempo: a poke that leaves a mark, then a burst that lets you slip away. Its aura works with conditions, extending pressure on overcommitting foes and weaving survivability into a fragile life-fabric. The world seems to lean in: a stray breath of steam; a siege suddenly feels winnable, momentum rising from a careful strike. Prices drift between whispers and ledgers, and that's where Saddlebag Exchange slides into the story like a narrow lane. At a weathered stall painted with bones, I watched a vendor slide a tarnished coin and a tale across the wood, the dagger trading hands for a price that could feed a small unit for a night. The seller spoke of demand among necromancers and night-worn adventurers who prize the dagger for its aura as much as its bite. People barter and swap stories as readily as steel, Saddlebag Exchange turning rumor into rough currency and a memory into a blade you might carry. With this blade in hand, I felt the world tilt toward both danger and wonder. It is not merely steel and steam; it is a relic that remembers the moment a life ends and a new one begins with a precise strike and a breath kept alive by a dying flame. It is a rumor you chase across the map, a memory that follows you into every shadowed corridor. And in the end, you trade fear for focus, steel for story.