Carrion Steam Trident

Carrion Steam Trident gleams under a gaslight, a three-pronged spear of brass and bone. The shaft is wrapped in worn leather, rivets catching the glow as pistons twitch with a quiet hiss. The head bears a lattice of gears, its prongs curved like frost-bitten claws, while a dull green rune runs along the base, flaring slightly when the weapon rests in a steady hand. A scrap of red cloth clings to the grip, a memory of a raid or a circle of patrons swearing oaths in a dim tavern. Locally the name carries a rumor-filled weight. Some say it was forged in the fumes of a ruined forge that fed on carrion and steam, a relic of a siege where the dead were kept at bay not by prayer but by clever machines. The Carrion motif hints at decay and revival: metal that feeds on rot, steam that breathes life back into something that should be still. Stories claim a furnace-master traded with caravan healers, binding pestilence and progress into one dangerous tool. When you step into light with it in your hand, the trident seems to pulse, as if the weapon itself remembers a battle long past. In play, the Carrion Steam Trident earns its keep on the field. Its reach turns tight streets and quayside docks into a controlled arena, allowing quick lunges and swinging arcs that sweep enemies from front to flank. A unique plume from the steam vents briefly collars the attention of nearby foes, blurring their focus and giving the wielder a fleeting, precious moment to reposition or land a follow-up strike. For a necromancer or an engineer who values both utility and flair, the weapon carries a story that enriches the performance—every swing a link to rot and revival, every hiss a reminder of the engine that powers life from death. Prices aren’t fixed in the markets; they shift with rumor and demand, especially in places where traders hawk their wares with a wink and a trade-story to match. At Saddlebag Exchange, I’ve seen it perched on a velvet cloth, the brass catching the lantern light as a buyer murmurs about bargaining chips—rare components, a scroll of inked warnings, and a whispered promise of a longer tale to tell in the tavern that evening. One day the Trident might be asked for a handful of glimmering ores and a charm; another, for gold saved from weeks of hewing river barges. In any case, the exchange is as much a stage as a storefront, where a weapon’s value lives through the stories spun by jars, coins, and the breath of the crowd. So it remains: not merely a weapon, but a hinge in a larger narrative—an artifact that strides between ruin and invention, rot and renewal, and the crowded pulse of a marketplace where every buyer and seller contends with the memory of steam and carrion.