Malign Steamcaller of Force

Malign Steamcaller of Force rests on a lacquered velvet cloth, its brass pipework gleaming like a withdrawn storm and the central orb pulsing with a blue-amber glow. The body is a lattice of rivets and blackened copper, etched with sigils that curl like smoke, and a ribbon of rust-red leather wraps its grip as if to keep a restless ghost in place. Touch it and the texture shifts from cool, almost bone-dry metal to a prickle of heat along the edges where steam breathes through tiny vents. Lore says it was forged by the Cogwrights, a renegade faction who bound volatile Force to brass and steam, letting a contender weaponize a whisper of wind and fuse it to a single, calculating will. In the old markets where the city’s ears trade rumors as surely as coin, the Malign Steamcaller is spoken of as much for its story as for its power—a relic that could swing a siege or settle a bargain in the same breath. When wielded, it channels a dense surge of Force into a concussive blast, the steam lifting into a bright halo, scattering enemies and leaving behind a shimmer of energized air that thins the fog for a moment. Players chase it for its versatility: a weapon for battlefield control, a utility for shattering protective wards, or a quiet, stubborn source of steady uptime in a build that thrives on tempo and timing. In hands, it becomes part of a larger story—stories of engineers and spellbinders who learned to listen to steam and its need to be free, a reminder that power in this world is often a conversation between metal and myth. At Saddlebag Exchange, traders whisper about the going rate, hovering between eight and twelve gold depending on provenance and the alignment of sigils. A recent ledger at a shaded stall shows a brisk tilt one morning, the charm of the item enough to coax a cautious smile from a buyer who hasn’t slept since a siege was lifted by a single, decisive pulse. A caravan guard might trade a crate of lamp oil for it, a scholar could barter a box of antique schematics, and a merchant may swap a handful of exotic ores if the buyer can convince them the steambound aether will sing again in their hands. So the Malign Steamcaller of Force continues to stride through the city’s corridors of commerce and memory, a green-lit beacon for those who still dream of turning trouble into a tale, a tool that asks for respect, patience, and the courage to listen when steam speaks. Stories write themselves around it: of a siege where a single blast turned a breach into a corridor of retreat, of a night market where a hesitant buyer found a future ally in the rusted hum of that very object. And so, in the city’s back alleys and glass-front museums, the item does more than tick a stat box; it binds people to a common memory—that sometimes the most dangerous force is not the thing you unleash, but the responsibility to wield it well. That is the quiet weight bidders feel when they cradle the Malign Steamcaller.