Carrion Steam Speargun

Carrion Steam Speargun rests on the weathered workbench, a hinge of brass and iron, a barrel that glints with copper patina, and a grip wrapped in dark, oiled leather that smells faintly of oil and old rain. The muzzle wears a ragged notch, like a fishhook bitten by time, and along the receiver run sigils—the carrion crow sketched beside a twisting gear—as if the weapon bears a memory of both rot and invention. When you lift it, the metal hums with a quiet steam breath, a hiss that returns when you squeeze the trigger, sending a steel-tipped bolt propelled by a cloud of hot steam. The spearhead gleams with a pale, almost greenish light, as if the weapon fed not just on mass and velocity, but on life and the pressurized breath of a forges-lit night. You half expect the thing to slink back into some necromancer's toolbox, yet it feels stubbornly mortal, as if it earned its own rust, its own scars. Lore threads into that metallic breath, telling of a few scavengers who found a way to graft steam-engine modders to carrion-worshipping rites, hoping to turn disease and death into something precise and military. The Carrion Steam Speargun carries the scent of those labors—iron, carrion ink, and the throbbing heart of a boiler—promising a disciplined rhythm in the heat of battle. Its uses in play are not flashy, but deeply satisfying: you lob a pressure-driven bolt that pierces through light armor and carves a path through thronging foes, then follow with a coil of steam that shrouds your next move, forcing enemies to duel your pace rather than theirs. It rewards timing, not brute speed, and the way its plume curls in the air makes every skirmish feel choreographed, teatral in the best sense, as if a craftsman were directing a tense scene between hunter and quarry. It is the kind of weapon that makes you imagine a world where people barter parts and prayers, where a street corner market doubles as a laboratory and boardroom. I found mine not in a showroom, but in the hustle of Saddlebag Exchange, where crates creak and a dozen traders murmur about supply routes and luck. The price is not always the same, they say; sometimes the ask floats on the tide of demand, sometimes a hardened broker will swap it for a lantern, or a weathered map fragment and a handful of silver. It was a quiet negotiation that felt more like a handshake across a counter than a purchase, the kind that lingers in memory as you load the gun and hear the steam sigh again. In that moment, the Carrion Steam Speargun stops being only a tool and becomes a small legend in your kit—a reminder that in this world, craftsmanship, rumor, and survival are all built into one breath of metal and steam. Its presence changes how a campbound night feels, a glimmer of hope that makes the next patrol feel worthwhile and the crew breathe easier.