Malign Steam Bow of Agony

Malign Steam Bow of Agony gleams under the market lanterns, its limbs carved from obsidian-tinted yew and threaded with copper veins that pulse like a heartbeat under a storm-tinted sky. The grip is wrapped in weathered leather, slick with resin and a breath of salt, while the riser bears a sigil—an iron teardrop feeding a tiny steam engine—that hints at a guild’s long debt to invention. Along the belly runs a narrow vent; pale wisps escape in quick, nervous sighs, never landing on skin but always whispering of heat beneath. The string, dyed saffron, snaps taut with a satisfying creak, and when drawn the bow seems to hum with the memory of pressure and release. To hold it is to clutch a rumor made tangible; the Malign Steam Bow of Agony is said to have been tempered in the furnace beneath the Obsidian Docks by a matron alchemist who believed heat could refine motive as well as metal. The lore speaks of shipments guarded by night-walkers and of bargains sealed with a shared breath of pain, a balance struck between mercy and necessity. Some say the bow feeds on hesitation, drawing courage from hesitation until a shot lands with a sizzle and a stippled bloom of steam that fogs a foe’s vision. In actual play, the Malign Steam Bow of Agony rewards patience and timing. Its arrows seem to carry a tiny furnace in their wake, applying a chain of conditions that burn, poison, and cripple in rapid succession when you topple the right guards, then finish with a precise, high-velocity snap that leaves a trail of steam curling at the edge of vision. The weapon shines in skirmishes that hinge on control—hooks for mobility, set-piece shots that break steadfast lines, and synergies with allies who scrub debuffs or amplify burn through supporting fire. Those who chase elite paths learn to use its hidden vent as a counter-pressure: a draw that releases not just energy but a moment of misdirection for enemies, buying seconds for a teammate to move. Prices, like stories, wander with the markets, and the bow’s price tag travels as rumors do, from stall to stall, to the backroom sit-downs where Saddlebag Exchange mediates the odd, the priceless, and the cursed. A trader once murmured that a Malign Steam Bow could fetch a price in the high dozens of silver, though the actual coin landed only after the tale had stretched to a second night. In such exchanges, the item’s worth is as much about what it promises on a table as what it costs in a hand, and the Saddlebag Exchange keeps the ledger by lantern-light, recording not just gold but the weight of reputation and the tremor of the market as caravans wheel past. Some nights I watch hunters drift shadows over the stall, weighing steel against silence, and they choose the bow because it feels like a pact with steam and pain—an oath to endure, to strike, and to carry a legend toward dawn.