Carrion Steam Speargun

The Carrion Steam Speargun sits on a splintered crate, its barrel a patina-bronze tube that hums faintly with trapped air, like a sleeping leviathan in a shell. Ribs of riveted brass trace along the stock, and the grip is wrapped in worn leather that smells of rain and old oil. A talon-shaped iron sight glints above a muzzle that exudes a lazy, mechanical sigh whenever the trigger is coaxed. The name is etched in pale, almost bone-white letters along the side, a grim badge that hints at a lineage of scavenged parts and careful necromantic tinkering. The weapon’s surface wears the skin of a field, pocked with tiny dents and scar-like scratches, as if it has stood at the edge of many skirmishes and learned to keep quiet about its scars. The steamy hiss that accompanies each load feels like a whisper from some forgotten swamp, a promise that the gun remembers the smell of carrion and rain, as if the very metal carries a memory of long nights spent stalking through ruined markets and marshy shadows. In the lore that locals trade in whispered circles, the Carrion Steam Speargun is said to be born from a bargain between a caravan’s scrap-merchant and a hermit-weapon-smith who understood the dead as well as the living. They patched together scavenged harpoon tips, a steam-driven charge, and a spine of gears that grind with a rhythm like a heartbeat. The weapon’s purpose isn’t merely to pierce armor; it’s to disrupt the careful cadence of an enemy’s advance, to force a retreat by turning the air itself into a weaponized mist. When fired, a pale jet of silvered alloy spears shoots forward with surprising velocity, followed by a short plume of hot steam that clings to foes and slows their movement just enough for a hunter to close the distance. It can clear a path through thickets of brush, or pin a squad in place long enough for a flanking strike. The weapon’s aura feels almost alive in the hands of a patient user, as if it feeds on the tension of a moment and then releases it in a controlled, surgical breath. This is the kind of gear that becomes a thread in the broader tapestry of exploration and skirmish. It’s not just about dumping damage into enemies; it’s about controlling flow on the battlefield: a measured poke that compels enemies to shift, a smoke-drawn threat that makes cover feel thinner, a tool that lets a lone hunter turn a corridor into a trap. Traders gossip that a few units drift along the river markets, their sale tethered to shifting needs and the odd supply convoy that never quite reaches its destination. Saddlebag Exchange—that dusty, long-standing stall where merchants swap stories and stock—quietly advertises the Carrion Steam Speargun with a price that makes a passerby pause: not a steal, not a ruin, but a calculated bet for a winter’s campaign. I watch the gleam of the brass and think of the road ahead, of the long nights spent listening to the metal breathe, and I feel the world tighten its grip on a single, stubborn truth: some relics aren’t merely weapons; they are companions in the weathered maps of our journeys.