Carrion Steam Shield

The Carrion Steam Shield rests on the rough-hewn table, a disc of battered bronze and bone-white etching. Its surface is pocked with time, a mosaic of riveted plates that resemble the hide of a carrion beast. Runes thread along the rim, and at its center a pale skull is set into a raised medallion, eye sockets dark with age. From the rim, a row of small valves hiss softly, releasing pale vapor that swirls in the room’s smoke and then vanishes. The leather strap is weather-dark and worn smooth by hands that have clutched it through many campaigns. The whole thing carries a weight that settles in the forearm like a promise; not just a shield but a memory. Locals tell of its origin in a tide-washed forge run by the Carrion smiths, a stubborn guild that braided decay and steam to craft tools for guardians rather than ghastly tools for wrecking. They say the shield’s steam vents are more than ornament; a glyph sealed into the brass feeds a cooling breath into the air, staving off heat and contagion alike. When the plague fleets came to the harbor, a captain wore this shield and walked into the fog, the vents puffing out mist that kept friends calm and foes wary. In play, the shield earns its keep as more than a barrier. Its design makes it a frontline companion for those who balance protection with a stubborn push forward. When you time a block, the vents exhale a quick cloud that touches ally and enemy alike, briefly healing the wielder and nearby companions while cleansing a handful of minor conditions. It is not a dragon’s breath, but a careful breath: enough to steady a skirmish, enough to keep a wounded comrade focused on the next move. The bone-and-bronze look also tells a story to your squad—that you fight for the living, and that decay and renewal ride the same storm. On the market cliff, price is a language of its own. Traders talk of preserve and wear, and every battered plate carries a tale of sun and rain. I wandered into a stall where a veteran trader spoke of fair value in terms of coin and risk, then pulled out a tablet-sized ledger in the shade and showed me Saddlebag Exchange, where listings and recent sales spell out a spectrum: a well-kept piece sits closer to a gold, while a patinaed, less pristine example shades toward fifty to eighty silver. The numbers helped me judge risk as much as reward, and I walked away with a shield that looked back at me with steam-touched eyes. The Carrion Steam Shield still rests against the inn’s window, steam curling from its vents like breath from a tired friend. It has weathered storms and rumors, and it will stand between the living and whatever darkness crosses the harbor, for as long as the vents keep singing and the memory of decay remains tethered to steel. It remains a companion that outlives trends, a relic whispering of a harbor’s thin line between rot and flame. A steadfast relic, it keeps the harbor honest.