Carrion Steam Bow

Carrion Steam Bow gleams under a sputtering lantern, its curved limbs forged from coal-dark steel and stitched with weathered leather that has learned rain and dust. A copper-spined riser runs along the frame, and vents along the upper curve sigh with every warm breath of wind. The grip is wrapped in tar-dark hide, pitted by oil and old resin, a tactile map of journeys past. Arrow notches are carved with carrion motifs—bone-white glyphs ringed in brass—while a compact steam-chamber nestles beneath the arrow rest, faintly ticking like a distant clock. When the bow is cocked, a pale haze threads along the limbs, and you can hear a soft, watchful hiss as if the weapon keeps the world at the edge of a sigh. Lore threads through its manufacture as if the bow itself remembers every mile walked. It is said to be born from the carcasses of plague-haunted beasts, bound to a tinker's steam engine salvaged from a fortress siege. The steam is not merely ornament; it breathes through the bow, shaping arrows into tiny wraiths that race toward their mark with a patient resolve. Hunters mutter about a night patrol where the steam-borne projectiles smoked across the hedges, leaving the grass blackened in their wake and the air tasting of iron and ash. In those stories, the Carrion Steam Bow is less a tool than a witness: a relic that speaks in hiss and rustle when it finds its quarry. In the field, its significance unfolds like a slow-burning tale. The weapon rewards measured tempo: a hunter who studies wind, sightlines, and the rhythm of a skirmish can thread shots that apply durable conditions while pressuring retreating foes. The projectiles carry a subtle torment—poison that lingers, a burn that clips away at stamina, and sometimes a blunted burst that blooms in a tight cone on impact. The steam’s presence adds a psychological edge too, a visible reminder that patience and distance can rewrite a fight. It’s the kind of bow that feels destined for long hunts through fog-damp swamps or ruined sentry halls, where every shot is a line of dialogue with the world’s stubborn entropy. Market life gives the Carrion Steam Bow a social heartbeat. In a narrow lane fragrant with coal smoke and spice, a stallkeeper tells you the bow’s price in hushed, careful tones—roughly two gold coins and a handful of silver—reflecting not only rarity but the work someone poured into coaxing life from metal and memory. The stall’s ledgers nod toward Saddlebag Exchange, a marketplace standard where a hunter’s receipt becomes a thread in a larger network of trades. You can feel the economy of danger and desire in the way the vendor lingers over the coin purse, weighing risk against risk, as if the very act of buying could tilt the balance of a night patrol. The exchange feels organic, a vignette within the greater chorus of the world’s markets and myths. When you lift the Carrion Steam Bow, you do more than choose a weapon. You carry a narrative—of carrion, steam, and the stubborn insistence that even in decay there is purpose. Its breath is not only a tool for piercing armor but a reminder that in a world stitched together by rumor, relics, and grit, some objects—like this one—are made to outlast a single tale, becoming chapters you carry into the next dawn.