Carrion Great Steamblade of Bloodlust

The Carrion Great Steamblade of Bloodlust gleams under the lantern, a monstrous crescent of hammered steel whose edge drinks the light and returns it as a hungry red. Its blade carries a weathered patina of brass and iron, etched with sinewy runes that crawl like worms along the fuller, and a strip of bone inlay that seems to twitch when the weapon is warmed by breath or flame. A network of tiny pistons along the spine hiss faintly when swung, and the hilt is wrapped in worn leather stained by time and combat. The texture is paradoxically cold and warm, like skin brushed with frost then kissed by a forge, and one can feel the hammering heartbeat of something older than the city it slept in for years. Lore says a carrion cult founder carved it from the bones of a plague’s herald and bound a temperamental steam spirit to the blade, gifting it with a hunger that only blood can sate. Each swing releases a whisper of that oath, a soft metallic sigh that promises both death and a kind of mercy to those who fight beside the wielder. In the hands of a frontline rider or a stubborn guardian, the weapon is more than metal. It drinks the vigor of the fight, lending lifeforce to the bearer as wounds close and embers glow in the dusk. The Bloodlust blade carries its own rhythm; when the tempo of battle climbs, the steamworks inside the hilt hums louder, fanning a crimson aura that swells with every decisive strike. Allies feel steadier, too, as the blade’s hunger blesses nearby teammates with a subtle, shared courage. In the longer arc of a siege or a raid, such a blade becomes a chapter in a larger story: a weapon sought by captains who barter in rumor and metal, carried by those who defend markets and ships, and whispered of in taverns where old coin changes hands as sure as blood spills. The device’s lore threads through the economy of fear and pride, a reminder that even relics of grim histories can shine when they are wielded with purpose. Price, as such things are priced in our world, slips between rumor and ledger. A trader at the saddle-slung stalls of Saddlebag Exchange once offered a quiet, almost respectful sum, measured in gold as heavy as a ship’s anchor and in trade goods worth more in memory than in metal alone. The seller spoke of ballast and balance—the blade’s need to be kept sharp, its spirit fed with honest blood—then wheeled the steel toward a buyer who would defend a harbor or loot a wrecked caravan. If you walk away with it, you do not merely own a sword; you inherit a duty to walk the line between glory and ruin, to let the blade’s stories guide your steps through crowded markets, silent ruins, and the rusted arteries of a city that refuses to forget. Its legend lingers long after the last echo fades away.