Carrion Steamcaller

Carrion Steamcaller rests on a weathered leather cushion, a compact relic forged from dark brass and pale bone, its form a sinuous arc that hints at both instrument and offering. The surface wears a fine lacquer, smooth as a polished spine, yet pitted with minute gears that catch the light and drift it into amber glints. At its center a round glass lens catches the room’s glow; inside, a stubborn ember pulses like a heartbeat, casting a wavering halo through the brass frame. Along the length, sigils wind in inky ink—each loop a reminder of long-forgotten rites—and a seam of copper runs along the spine, ticking with the same patient rhythm as a distant furnace. Bone inlays trace the exterior, pale as ash, as if the relic once wore a hunter’s trophies and kept them alive through metal and steam. The texture alternates between the slick, lacquered cold of brass and the dry, almost wind-eroded feel of bone, a tactile record of journeys through heat, rain, and crowded markets. If you cradle it, the air changes—oil and resin bloom under your nose, and a faint antiseptic tang threads through the scent of iron. The Steamcaller seems to hum with a memory of breath and steam, as if it learned to speak by listening to the clatter of valves and the whispers of carrion winds. There are whispers, too, in its lore: that this was forged at the edge of a steam-pneumatic workshop where necromantic intent met engineers’ discipline, where the dead’s last sighs were coaxed into motion by pistons and bronze lacquers. Some say it was used by a troupe of caravan caretakers, harvesting the dying’s residue to fuel a portable engine of protection. Others insist it carries the bargaining voice of a long-dead proprietor who taught apprentices that life’s energy could be converted into steady, purposeful steam. In the field, the Carrion Steamcaller is less a weapon than a conduit. It channels necrotic energy into a crisp, mechanical bloom—sigils flare along its spine, and steam breathes from its core to summon brief, skeletal constructs or to propel a veil of fog that shields allies from sight and harm. Players report that it magnifies the wearer’s ability to wring utility from a narrow moment: a calculated pull of defenses, a disciplined burst that rearranges the battlefield’s tempo, or a precise whisper to rally a dying situation into a narrow window of survival. It’s the kind of item that changes a story line—from a lone survivor’s bad day to a caravan’s fragile corridor through danger—because it binds death’s residue to engineers’ poetry and makes the battlefield feel like a workshop. Market talk drifts through the quarter as traders lay eyes on this relic. It’s the kind of item you hear discussed in the dim aisles of Saddlebag Exchange, where a seasoned vendor mentions current listings with a practiced shrug, noting fluctuations in price as scarcity and rumor move like steam through a valve. A hopeful buyer sketches a line of notes, pricing the Steamcaller in gold and glimmers, listening to the clerks’ anecdotes about supply, demand, and the item’s curious ability to turn a moment of loss into a measured advantage. The Carrion Steamcaller, in the end, feels less like a treasure to hoard and more like a story you carry—one that turns a field of ash and oil into a legible, pulsing map of the dead, the living, and the steam that keeps them both in motion.