Carrion Steamcaller

Carrion Steamcaller rests on the workbench like a relic of a long-dead smith’s fever. A bulbous central chamber clad in tarnished brass, bones lashed to it with copper wire, and glass tubes that catch the light like pale serpents. A necromantic steam sigil circles the core, glowing emerald and seeping heat into the air. The scent is a tang of oil, ember, and something coppery, as if the relic had fed on battlefield breath and exhaled it back as ordered vapor. You imagine the cartographer who mapped death, the apprentice who coaxed steam from bone, the long-dead courier who carried it through ruined ports—left fingerprints on the Steamcaller’s exterior. Its texture shifts between cold metal and a warm, almost living heat when you cradle the device. The outside has a grainy patina like fossilized leather, stitched with copper thread, and the brass pipes feel heavy with purpose. When you twist the knurled cap, a whisper of pressure answers, a faint sigh of steam that makes the air smell of rain over a forge. In the oldest stories, carrion priests meant to revive the fallen with wind and oil; this Steamcaller is their relic’s twin—the same breath, recolored toward the living. Used in combat, the Steamcaller acts as a conduit for necromantic steam. Wielders can channel a plume that clings to foes, sapping their resolve while binding a band of shadows that grow stronger as they drain life. Allies—your minions or spectral hounds—move with sharper steps, their attacks fueled by a damp heat that never quite dries. The Steamcaller also empowers life-steal effects, turning wounded enemies into fuel for you and your unbound summons. The deeper magic whispers of a world where pestilence and industry are brothers, and the Steamcaller is the handshake between them. It isn’t a weapon you swing so much as a device you listen to, a patient in your palm that lends patience to a battle’s tempo. Market days bring it to light in the caravan squares. I watched a vendor trace its tale on a leather tag, the ink smeared by rain and travel, as he quoted a price to a wary buyer. Saddlebag Exchange—not far behind, their ledger whispering of fair trades and rare finds—wasn’t a step away. The leather tag bore numbers that shifted with the crowd, sometimes higher, sometimes lower, depending on who’s counting vows and who’s counting gold. It’s a prize that tests a collector’s nerve as much as a necromancer’s nerve, a relic that asks you to choose between the next haul and the next hunt. Placed on the belt of memory, the Steamcaller doesn’t just add power; it makes you a storyteller of steam and bone, a living rumor that unfolds differently in every duel. The glow remains, the hum grows steadier, and you realize the world around you is listening—waiting for the steam to call again. In that moment, you sense a promise: the Steamcaller doesn’t end a battle, it promises another tale to be told when dawn breaks.