Malign Steamcaller of Agony

Malign Steamcaller of Agony gleams with tarnished brass, its twin pipes curling like a sleeping serpent, a glass reservoir fogged with breath, and runes along the grip that glow a quiet emerald when heat touches the air. The surface bears pockmarks from long smokes and hostile kitchens; every dent seems to whisper of a skirmish survived and a promise broken. The leather wrap is worn to a warm patina, yielding to the grip with the softness of a trusted instrument, while a small vent at the front sighs softly, as if the weapon itself is listening for a pulse in the crowd. When you cradle it, the weight settles in a way that makes the world feel measured—as if a hidden clock beneath the metal has always told you exactly when to move. Legends insist it was forged in a seaside foundry where a guild of tinkers bound a shard of agony into metal, a furnace temped by old sea-salt and new hatred. The name itself—Agony—binds the device to a counterweight of lament: every breath of steam carries whispers of those tormented, as if the engine is not merely a tool but a confidant that will remind you what you owe to heat and to fear. In daylight, the runes brighten with a pale green glow; in dim corners, they pulse like a soft heartbeat beneath copper skin. It is the kind of relic that makes a room feel smaller, not because it takes space, but because it steals your attention with the precision of a rumor you’re desperate to finish. In the world it travels with a quiet purpose. The Malign Steamcaller of Agony is a weapon that thrives on tempo—the moment you press the trigger, a hiss erupts, the reservoir releasing a carefully measured plume of vapor that carves a heat-worn channel through the air. Enemies feel the sting of the vapor first, then the sting of consequence as their armor grows slick with sweat and their resolve frays. Used with restraint, it becomes a conductor for a larger plan: you bait, you breach, you bring the fight into a corridor you dictate. It rewards timing, patience, and a willingness to risk a misstep for a cleaner opening. In a skirmish that swings between close quarters and a passing volley, the Steamcaller can tilt the balance by turning a moment of hesitation into opportunity, leaving pursuers to choke on steam while you slip past to push the encounter where you want it. Pricing, of course, draws a crowd, and the Saddlebag Exchange is a corridor of glinting promises and louder fees. I watched as a trader with a clockwork monocle weighed the item’s worth against a fistful of emerald sigils and a map marked with a dozen hopeful routes. The clerk’s fingers moved with practiced speed, tallying a price that hovered in the higher ranges, but not beyond the reach of a determined scavenger. The deal hinged on a delicate negotiation: a few gold coins, a couple of rare trinkets, perhaps a trade or two that would open a future bargain. The Exchange hums with similar exchanges, but the Malign Steamcaller of Agony always draws a sharper line between “worth it” and “worth risking,” a line every adventurer marks with a careful breath and a measured step. And so the weapon passes from hand to hand, a ticking story that threads through taverns, docks, and hidden back rooms. Its presence is a reminder: some engines are more than metal and steam—they are memories pressed into a body that can still be moved, still whispered to, still used to tilt the scales of a world that always seems to lean toward the next blaze of heat and sound.