Carrion Steam Pistol

Carrion Steam Pistol rests on a splintered worktable, its brass housing worn to a warm, sunlit patina by years of fieldwork and careless layovers. The barrel is stitched with bone-gray ribs of some long-departed creature, the surface pocked with tiny rivets that catch the light like teeth in shadow. A row of vented discs runs along the spine, and when the pebbled trigger is pressed, a controlled sigh of steam slips out, as if the pistol itself is exhaling after a long march. The grip is wrapped in cracked leather etched with sigils of a carrion beetle, a touch that invites the fingers to linger and listen for whispers. A small red lens atop the sight glints when the weapon is aligned, and a faint green patina threads its way along the joints, as if ivy found its way into a forge. It looks like a relic, and in a hurry it feels like a trap waiting to be sprung. Lore threads into the texture of its steel. Old ledger scraps and rumors alike insist the Carrion Steam Pistol was crafted in a shed by the marshy fringes, from scavenged parts of undead-engineering and the bones of beasts that never quite learned to die. Some say it was blessed by a smith who learned to coax steam from the heart of decay; others insist it was cursed to remember every battlefield it ever watched. Whatever the truth, the pistol carries a story in its hiss—an almost musical crackle that reminds its wielder that power here is often tethered to rot and resilience. In daylight or storm it seems to lean toward the vulnerable, yet its bite lands with a practiced certainty, as if the weapon is urging the living to keep up with the dead. In the hands of those who understand its rhythm, the Carrion Steam Pistol becomes more than a weapon; it is a narrative device in the ongoing drama of the road. It is quick enough to loiter on the edge of a skirmish, hot enough to disrupt a murky approach, and steady enough to cover a retreat with a disciplined plume of steam that fogs a pursuer’s sight. Its shots, released in short, measured bursts, feel almost like careful negotiations with fate—one-part steam, one-part iron, both parts a reminder that every encounter leaves a trace. Those who pair it with light, mobile support find it excels at probing flank avenues, pinning down a foe while allies slip through the smoke like dreamers in a memory. The market breathes around it as well. On a sun-bleached morning, a stall near the back of a wagon circle—Saddlebag Exchange—toys with the pistol’s life as if it were a single coin among many. A trader lifts the weight of the pistol, brushes a thumb along the leather grip, and speaks softly of reliability and spare parts, of a heat that never quite burns you and a hiss that never forgets a bargain. The price tag, written in careful script, is a negotiable story in itself—enough to tempt a scavenger chasing a rumor, not so much that it breaks a caravan’s rhythm. In the end, the Carrion Steam Pistol travels not as a simple tool, but as a companion in the long, wandering economy of salvage and survival, a relic re-aimed at a future where every shot carries memory as surely as it carries heat.