Carrion Steam Speargun

The Carrion Steam Speargun glares at you even before you lift it: a long iron barrel, mottled with rust and lacquered in a dull oil-black patina, front end horned by a gleaming bronze spearhead that glints with a greenish tide. Brass fittings along the stock catch the lamplight; a carved bone or ivory segment runs along the grip, etched with birds in flight and hooded eyes—perhaps a ward against the foul breath of its own steam. A leather wrap coils around the grip, sun-bleached and slick, whispering with every touch as steam hisses softly from a chipped pressure valve near the trigger guard. When you shake it, the whole thing murmurs like a seaworn kettle, as if it carries a tide of stories from far ports. Lorekeepers murmur that it was born in a workshop where carrion cults met engineers, a hybrid of necromantic grit and steamwork, meant to push back waves of the living dead and the living machines alike. Its weight speaks of a world where danger and curiosity ride the same cart. On the battlefield or in a tense street skirmish, the Carrion Steam Speargun proves its promise. Its design blends reach and restraint: the spear glides forward on a jet of pressurized air, pinning foes to walls or crates and scattering a plume of oily steam that obscures the next strike. In battles against pack-beasts and blind horrors, timing becomes poetry—the kind of poetry that ends in an explosion of gearwork and blood. For a scavenger with a knack for engineering and a taste for risk, it doubles as a tool and a story anchor: a weapon that can carve a path through a chokepoint and a symbol of the old alliance between inventor and investigator. Some builders rig it with venoms or sigils that cling to armor, letting the steam carry a paralyzing kiss before the harpoon finds its mark; others use it to disrupt enemy formations, to force retreats, to buy a moment for a comrade to crawl away with a wound stitched by chances. Its weight anchors you in the room, and the hiss of steam becomes a chorus for every bold decision you make with it. Markets along the harbor teach you the price of lore as much as the copper and gold. I pause at the Saddlebag Exchange stall, where a tag dangles from the grip—another reminder that stories cost something in this world. The dealer’s eyes glint with the same oil-slick shine as the gun: a lived-in weapon, not pristine, priced to move. It’s a ship-to-port bargain—cheaper than a gleaming new model but not so ragged as to be useless. The tag hints at a handful of runs, a rough history of rescue missions and misfires alike. I hear rumors that some owners keep it for luck, some for leverage, some because it feels like a memory you can carry without tiring your arms. In this market of rumors and rivets, the Carrion Steam Speargun travels with anyone bold enough to strap their own fate to a steel spool and set sail toward whatever comes next. The item survives long beyond any single campaign, passing hands like a ledger of near-misses and bargains. When you finally heft it, you feel a history you can use, a promise you must earn.