Carrion Steam Pistol

Carrion Steam Pistol sits on a weathered desk, its brass barrel etched with pale necrotic runes, a thin veil of emerald steam curling from a vent near the muzzle. The metal is pitted and warm to the touch, like something alive that forgot how to sleep, and the grip is wrapped in cracked leather that smells faintly of oil and rust. A small crest—half a skull, half a gear—is pressed into the wood, as if to remind the wielder that death and invention share the same heartbeat. When you heft it, the weight sits heavy in the hand, a steady ritual of draw and release as if taming a patient animal with a whispered promise. The surface bears the sly laughter of a century; rivets glint with coppery sheen, and specks of green patina bloom along the seams, as if the pistol had spent a long season living in damp crypts between wars and repairs. Its lore travels with it in a way that feels almost like breath. They say it was forged in a forgotten enclave where tinkers and necromancers once argued over what “useful” really meant: a gun that drinks the carrion winds of the battlefield to spit back a wound that lingers. The Carrion Steam Pistol is said to carry a chill of the afterlife in every misfire and a hiss of steam that grows louder when moral lines grow thinner. In some legends, the weapon is a conduit for the engineers who learned to coax life from decay—pistols coaxing a wretched, cooling cloud that can blur the eyes of a target and mask a hunter’s advance. In others, it’s a warning: power that smells of rot is never wholly trustworthy, even when it spits out a clean, decisive shot. In gameplay terms, the pistol is a storyteller’s instrument rather than a simple tool. It rewards patience and precision, rewarding careful timing with a plume of steam that can distract, deter, or reveal opponents who think they’re unobserved. The shots carry a mechanical bite that punctures shields and weaves into a larger sequence of moves, a piece of a larger plan that a skilled player threads through muttered conversations and crowded streets. In the hands of an engineer who knows how to pace their assault, the Carrion Steam Pistol becomes a bridge between tradecraft and dark cleverness, a reminder that every gadget is a small theatre of war. Prices aren’t written in stone, it seems, even on the dusty stalls of the city’s trading rings. If you’re hunting for one, you’ll hear murmurs about condition and runes, and the Saddlebag Exchange—a place where old wares meet new stories—often jokes that you pay with a mix of silver and reputation. A good deal, negotiators say, comes to those who listen as much as they talk, who understand that value isn’t only measured in coins but in the kind of tale you can tell after you’ve cut loose the first sigh of steam.