Carrion Steam Dagger of Earth

Carrion Steam Dagger of Earth gleams under the lanterns, a blade that seems half-made from bone and half-born of rumor. The edge is pale steel, inscribed with faint mineral veins that look like tiny caves. Steam clings to the surface, a pale mist that never fully dissipates, seeping from micro-cracks along the hilt as if the weapon itself has a fever. The grip is wrapped in split leather, mottled with ash and soot, and the guard is a crescent of brass that catches the light with a patient, almost merciful glint. A bone plate runs along the back, proud and rough, ending in a pommel set with a rough cut stone that feels cool against the palm. On the runed guard, earth sigils pulse in a quiet rhythm, as if the dagger were listening for tremors beneath the soil. Lore ties it to carrion rites and steam-veined earth magic, forged in the wake of a necromancer-turned-smith who brokered a pact between the grave and the quarry. They say the blade drinks in decay, turning it into a slow tremor that travels through the ground when the dagger strikes, a whisper of soil and rot that unsettles even the hardiest foe. In practical hands it becomes a signature tool in a world that weighs every shadow. A thief might slip it from the belt and trust the steam to cover a backstab, the earth magic wrapping the moment in a muffled sigh. A necromancer can coax it to shudder with each slice, the blade leaving behind a line of creeping bleed that lingers like fog on stone. When paired with the right runes and traits, it can crack armor with earth-shaken force, forcing opponents to reel before the ground itself seems to rise. The dagger’s steam is more than theater; it is an audible reminder that the earth remembers, even in a city of glass and flame. I watched the price tag swing between two scribbles at Saddlebag Exchange, a long-case stall where old loot meets new demands. The vendor’s chalked note read two gold and forty silver, a sum that made passersby pause as if measuring the weight of a memory. A whispered counter-offer, a nod, and suddenly the leather slipcase came with a promise: if you carried it for a season, if you shared a campfire with it and proved your intent to respect the earth’s bargain, the price would settle lower, or a trade would surface that could be counted in gems and rations rather than coins. The exchange is as much about story as steel, because every buyer adds a new chapter to the blade’s history. So the Carrion Steam Dagger of Earth remains not merely a tool but a witness—a thin line drawn between decay and courage, a whisper that travels with the steam and the tremor, an instrument that can cut through both flesh and memory, leaving the world a little reminded of its own roots. Its legend grows whenever a quarry trembles nearby.