Malign Steam Axe of Force

Malign Steam Axe of Force rests on the workbench like a captured storm. Its blade is a broad slab of iron-dark steel, edges gleaming with a wear-free edge, a serrated line of cog-teeth along the top where steam vents breathe out puffs of pale vapor. The handle is wrapped in worn leather that smells faintly of oil and ash, bound with copper rivets that catch the light as you turn it. A brass escutcheon bears a looping sigil, half-forged, half-cursed, as if the weapon carries a whispered oath. Along its blade runes glow faintly, pulsing with a cold blue light when the hammer falls or when danger approaches, and the whole thing seems to hum when you lift it, like a kettle about to boil. The Malign Steam Axe of Force is not merely steel and smoke; lore says it was tempered in a furnace fed by a rogue grate of the old steamwrights, a weapon forged to shatter violence with more violence, to bend the battlefield to the will of the holder. Its name carries both warning and invitation, a paradox in metal and steam. In practice, the axe doesn't merely cut; it channels pressure. Swing by swing it releases a rune-fed pulse that shivers along the air, knocking back light skirmishers, bending the line to a more determined front. Warriors claim it grants a steadier hand in the heat of close combat, a confidence that comes from knowing the blade will bite even when armor rattles and shields rebound. For engineers who chat with pistons and levers, it becomes a symbol, a tool that reminds them how quickly a battlefield can hinge on a single misstep or a single perfect swing. The greater world treats it as a relic of power, a thing sought by guilds and caravans, traded in whispers and over brass counters at the Saddlebag Exchange, where seasoned merchants read the market like a meal ticket: a price that climbs with demand, then dips when supply loosens, then climbs again when a rumor of a siege reaches the docks. A traveler who wants to own this piece knows to haggle with quiet patience, to count brass and copper and the occasional silver coin, and to ask about the weapon’s balance, its heat, and the way it feels in the hand after a long march through heat and rain. I once watched a veteran carry the Malign Steam Axe into a ruined watchtower, its breath fogging in the corridors, its edge catching the glint of torches as if it were alive. In the end the axe wasn’t about glory; it was a choice to keep moving, to press forward as old walls groan and new days begin. That is the story this weapon tells to any who will listen: power that speaks through steam, courage that refuses to rust, and a price that is paid, still, in the long, loud hours of a world always in motion. It lingers in memory long after the fires fade.