Carrion Steam Mace

Carrion Steam Mace sits like a relic of a furnace war: a heavy head of dull brass stitched with rivets, braids of bone along the haft, and a hinge where vents sigh out a pale, sickly steam. The metal is warm to the touch, not from heat but from memory; you can still feel the weight of long-forgotten battles in its grip, and the edge bears micro-scarifications that catch the light like damp glass. A sigil runs along the head, a looped script that recalls necromancers tinkering with steam and carrion to keep rot at bay—the kind of lore that makes a trader’s tale hinge on one dusty moment when the weapon saved a caravan. It is more than a weapon: it is a narrative memory, a portable alchemy kit that once hacked through a pestilent maw and then settled into a warrior's hand. When swung, the mace sends a little plume of pale vapor, the scent of iron and old herbs, and those who know the old markets sense the tale behind it: a scavenger-chemist weaponized rot and heat to punch through armor. The lore ties the Carrion Steam Mace to a network of camps that traded in dangerous curiosities—repairs whispered between engineers and necromancers who spoke in heat and rust. In actual use, its weight anchors a fight in the front lines; it is the kind of tool that demands a patient, bruising rhythm. Wrench the lungs of a foe with a single heavy strike, and a second effect lingers—a lingering decay that fans out and disrupts healers' rhythms or curbs the enemy's movement. Players who lean into condition damage and sustained pressure find the mace dialed to their mood: brutal when you want the crowd, precise when you want to crack a tough foe. In synergy with teammates, the Carrion Steam Mace can carve lanes through crowds, turning a battlefield into a stage where every blow writes a line in the ongoing story of the expedition. Yet its truth breathes not only in combat but in memory and trade. A weapon's shadow stretches across fabled lanes, and Saddlebag Exchange becomes the market where its tales find new carriers. I hear merchants mention it in hushed tones, the price dancing between a few gold and a small hoard, depending on condition and the glints of runes that still gleam on the haft. A buyer will feel the weight of the seller's story—the scars on the grip, the steam-stained cloth wrap, the rumor that this very mace guarded a caravan across a blighted pass. Even as season and tides shift, the Carrion Steam Mace remains a token of resilience, a tool of a far-reaching world that reuses fear as fuel and memory as blade. Sometimes, when the market quiets at dusk, a streetwise collector winds the leather strap, cradles the mace against the chest, and tells the next listener what it cost to survive the plague's breath and how one swing can tilt the balance of a night raid.