Carrion Steam Trident

The Carrion Steam Trident sits on a rough stone shelf, its three prongs curved like cold talons and etched with faint, jarred sigils that glow a pale green in lamplight. Brass plates wrap the shaft, hammered and riveted, while a bone core runs through its spine, slick with a thin sheen of oil that smells faintly of burnt tires and old bone. Small vents along the haft hiss whenever the weapon is moved, releasing little wisps of steam that curl and vanish into the air. A leather wrap, cracked and darkened by rain, grips the handle, where threads are still visible from repairs made in a long-ago workshop. The whole thing carries a residue of carrion lore—the kind of rumor that says it was forged in a necromancer’s foundry, where decay feeds blue flame, and where iron and bone once argued over which would have the last word. In battle, its use feels like a story you'll tell at a fireside. The trident travels with a measured sweep, its steam-driven tick-tock harmonizing with the pulse of life and loss. There’s a sense that each strike not only cuts but unsettles the air around you, drawing faint whispers from the wounded world. Crafters prize its durable metal and the way the carved sigils drink in a smith’s enchantments. For players pursuing necromancer or condition-focused builds, it becomes a bridge between bone-bound ritual and practical steel: the weapon’s unique traits lend reach and a spectral edge, enabling a quick follow-up that snarls through crowd control and makes space for a companion to slip in. In the larger tapestry, the Carrion Steam Trident is not simply a tool; it’s a shared memory, a relic that ties a field of graves to a harbor market and to the quiet workshops where salvagers turn plunder into purpose. On the market, the Saddlebag Exchange becomes part of the story. A weathered trader with a map-scarred hat points to the trident and tells a tale of ships, caravans, and the long road between the fog-drowned coast and the furnace-lit inland towns. The price tag, handwritten on a brass tag, glints in the lamplight—roughly a gold and a quarter, a sum that many would argue for a piece of history and a bit of danger. Even as you count the coins and haggle over value, the seller’s eyes twine with the item’s history, offering not just a sale but a continuation of a legend: a weapon that once rattled through the bone-strewn alleys of a plague-haunted bazaar, now poised to shape a fresh story in the hands of a new bearer. Perhaps that is the trident’s truest magic: it refuses to be only metal and steam, insisting instead on narrative—of carrion and contraption, of old wars and new routes, of those who trade memory for momentum and those who take momentum for memory. On the waterfront, a gull watches the scene as the trident's steam sighs. Its future remains unwritten, ready to be claimed by the next bearer who listens.