Carrion Great Steamblade of Agony

Carrion Great Steamblade of Agony rests on a worn workbench, its blade a slice of weathered steel veined with coppery filaments that shimmer as heat seems trapped inside. The edge bears micro-serrations, and along the fuller runes of a dead smith glow with pale light. The blade's spine bears dents, and a ring of brass gears sits near the hilt, ticking softly as if it keeps a heartbeat from a sealed mechanism. The hilt is wrapped in cracked leather dyed like dried blood, and at the pommel a small vent sighs a misty breath, releasing steam that never quite clears. The whole thing smells of oil, ozone, and something faintly sweet—an aroma that hints at experiments performed by hands that should have known better. Whispers say it was forged at the edge of a siege where necromancy brushed against steamwork, that it passed from scavenger to scavenger until a hunter known as the Harrowwright finally claimed it, binding its temper to the agony of those it felled. The blade drinks memories of the fallen, and those who have held it swear they hear distant screams muffled by steam hiss whenever they swing. In play, the Carrion Great Steamblade of Agony is a rare instrument for the patient, a weapon that rewards preparation. Its steam-driven heft smooths a charge, then erupts in a torrid arc that leaves foes coughing and disoriented, while a ghosted aura of agony clings to their armor, slowing reflexes and widening the window for a follow-up strike. Veteran wielders pair it with precise stabs that puncture a single enemy and ripple torment through the pack, turning fights into a choreography of pain—one where the blade feeds on fear as much as steel. Crafters report that each kill tightens the mechanism, and that the weapon’s rumbling breath grows louder with every blow, as if counting down to a verdict. For engineers and necromancers who crave both script and steam, the blade offers tempo and torment. On market days the blade returns to memory, to banners and whispered trades. I skirted the Saddlebag Exchange, where the ledger glowed with numbers and rumor. A clerk whispered that a similar relic traded hands for 72 silver and a crate of smoldering sigils, a test of nerve and taste. The ledger margins glittered with the idea that value here is as much about stories as metal, and that the Carrion blade’s reputation could tilt a price like a gust tilting a caravan. Whether carried by a scavenger-king who raids markets or by a quiet smith who clutches it like a prayer, the blade remains more than a weapon. It is a rumor made tangible, a conduit for war stories, a reminder that agony can be forged into order when the steamworks of a world refuse to sleep. In the right hands it cuts a path through chaos; in the wrong, it gnaws at its caretaker, until the next buyer at Saddlebag Exchange sets a new price and the circle begins again today.