Carrion Steam Hammer

Carrion Steam Hammer sits on the anvil, a leviathan of iron and brass, its head a broad block of dark steel etched with sunken runes. Facets catch the forge's glow, each strike leaving a micro-spark that travels along the pipe-work like a tiny, obedient lightning. Along the spine runs a tangle of copper tubes and riveted plates, a weathered bronze sheen pitted by years of smoke and rain. The handle is wrapped in pocked leather, the grip studded with small, bone-white inlays that evoke a skeletal crest. At the hammer's center a compact steam core hisses softly, and a vent near the nose exhales a regular sigh, as if the iron beast within breathes with you in the heat of the workshop. There is lore stitched into those lines too—a whispered lineage that the Carrion name came from scavenger marks left by undead couriers who delivered rusted relics to a nameless foundry, and that the moldering bones used in its adornments were taken from the bones of enemies whose banners burned at dawn. People say the hammer was forged where necromantic zeal meets old world engineering, a tool meant not for display but for a world that refuses to lie quiet on a battlefield. In the hands of a veteran, the Carrion Steam Hammer becomes part of a larger chorus—the ground trembles with its swing, and a plume of steamy breath follows each arc, turning a single strike into a chorus line that clears a pocket of enemies and unsettles a line of skirmishers. The steam vent is more than a gimmick; it shakes loose fragments of smoke and heat, briefly disorienting foes and giving the wielder room to pivot into another blow. In practice, it favors close-quarters brunt over finesse, delivering heavy damage on contact and stacking persistent conditions that gnaw at armor and nerves. It’s not about finesse, but about imprinting your will on the battlefield: the hammer’s weight amplifies with every swing, every shudder of the pipes sending up a ring of heat and a hiss of pressure that travels through the air. Markets shift like tides, and the hammer finds itself traded along caravan routes, slipping from forge to buyer with stories stitched in its brass pipes. In the bustling Saddlebag Exchange, where mules and merchants exchange rumors for coin, the Carrion Steam Hammer is a coveted prize—sometimes priced high as a sign of a trusted mentor or low enough to tempt a daring explorer who has earned enough favors. Caravans speak in coded whispers about the item’s provenance, the likelihood of replacement parts, and the chance that a new core might coax an even deeper breath from its steel lungs. And so the hammer remains not just a weapon, but a memory of wars waged in the shadows of smoke and bone, a tool that keeps echoing across the road between forges and graves. Those who have carried it through sieges swear it carries a memory of every life it met, and the steam’s whistle ties that memory to the bearer, turning instinct into stubborn courage. In the whispers of markets and in the clang of a campfire, the Carrion Steam Hammer keeps telling the same story: the old world survives when iron and will meet at the same time.