Malign Great Steamblade of Force

Malign Great Steamblade of Force gleams with a tempered brass blade, broad and arrogant, its surface etched with looping sigils that shiver in the light. The edge carries a blue-black heat, dulled by a lacquer of oil that slicks the steel, catching the torchlight like a serpent’s scale. Along the spine, a row of tiny pistons tick and hiss, feeding a soft steam that threads through the handguard and into the grip. The guard itself is a cluster of gears, interlocking teeth that promise both reach and rigidity, while the grip is wrapped in worn leather, pocked by countless dawns and battles. A crimson jewel sits in the pommel, pulsing with a quiet heartbeat that seems to measure the World’s strain, and when it throbs, you feel the weapon answer back with a visible tingle along your forearm, as if the blade conducts your own breath into a tempest. On the field, the Malign Great Steamblade of Force does not simply cut; it pushes, pries, and unsettles the ground beneath your foes. A swing sends a gust of hot air and a surge of displaced momentum, turning shielded bodies into a single corridor of opening. In the hands of a disciplined fighter, the steam-powered edge knots together into a sequence that makes armor seem to sigh and give way, as if the blade itself were bending the air to carry its will. Some use it to chain crowd-control with a heavy, decisive follow-up; others draw a line through the front line, rupturing cords of spear and shield with a single breath of steam. Its lore speaks of a guild of artisans who fused rune-etched force with practical mechanics, tempering the metal in a forge fed by stormlight and coal, so that every strike might feel like the world’s grip tightening, then relaxing in a controlled blast. Pricing and the market part: In the bazaar of the Saddlebag Exchange, the blade drew its price like a rumor. The stalls were crowded with merchants and map-tossed caravanners; a ledger scribbled with figures showed a sum that turned heads and tempted hearts—roughly several gold coins, a little more for those who could name the proper reliquary and the right buyer. The clerk, a careful woman with eyes as bright as a coin’s edge, nodded toward the blade and warned that its force-binding required not just coin but a keeper’s discretion to avoid runaway heat in crowded streets. A buyer might haggle, offering spare parts, a cache of ore, or a debt paid in service, but the true value lay in the blade’s potential to shift momentum during a siege or a skirmish. Even now it sleeps in a traveler’s pack, its breath quiet but patient, waiting to be drawn into the next story—where a corner of a map glows with the possibility of a rupture in the ranks, and a single blade makes a world of difference. If you listen close in the furnace-lit alleys, the Malign Great Steamblade of Force seems to whisper that power has a price, and courage is the only coin you can truly bank on.