Carrion Steam Bow of Agony

The Carrion Steam Bow of Agony sits on the low table, its limbs lacquered a raven-black and etched with pale bone runes that catch the lamplight like frost on metal. The grip is wrapped in weathered leather, a strip torn from a traveler's cloak, and the handguard bears a rusted bronze crest that looks more like a memory than metal. From the bow’s center floods a soft, perpetual sigh of steam, vents along the risers wheezing as if the weapon itself is breathing through a long, reluctant night. The string is taut with patient power, and when you cradle it, the weight sits in your palm the way a quiet verdict settles on a courtroom. Its surface carries the patina of a thousand hunts—scuffed, oiled, and stubbornly alive with a greenish sheen that hints at a poison-togged past. The lore threads through its design as if the weapon were a letter unopened for years: a carrion-bird motif on the limb, a sigil of agony burned into the belly of the stock, and a small brass wheel at the trigger that hums faintly when a shot is drawn. Locals tell you the bow was born in the shadowed workshops of the Steamwarren, where necromancers and engineers shared a dangerous friendship: splinters of bone, kept warm by hot steam, sealed into a weapon meant to remind the living that life and decay are two sides of the same clock. The Agony name is no flourish—behind it lies a memory of a plague-spread campaign, of medics who begged for mercy and engineers who refused to give up on a single glimmer of hope. When you pull the string, you hear that whispered history cradle your ear: a promise that every arrow will carry a little of that relentless, inexorable steam, a reminder that pain can be forged into purpose. In play, the bow feels like a compact storm. It draws quickly for a weapon of its size, delivering shots that land with a crisp snap and then linger in the air as a faint, sickly bloom. The first strike applies a potent bleed and sears the ground with a steam-tinged pulse, while a charged shot releases a wider cone of corrosive mist that clings to enemies, turning tenacity into trouble and forcing foes to retreat or risk a spread of torment. It’s a tool for patient control and brutal finishes: you pace your shots to weave poison, vulnerability, and a steady stream of gunpowder hunger into the skirmish, turning fights into a slow-played story of consequence. Markets echo with whispers about such relics, and the Saddlebag Exchange is where you’ll sometimes hear them settled with a trader’s grin and a stack of coins. A curious owner might set the bow on the counter and describe it in terms of risk and reward—perhaps eight to ten gold, with variations depending on the sigils etched into the stock and the steam’s stubborn mood on that day. Barterers offer cloth and ore, letters of passage, and the odd salvaged jewel, all weighing the same question: what is this weapon willing to unfold in the world it enters? For those who carry it, the Carrion Steam Bow of Agony is not just a tool. It’s a memory you fire into the dark, a reminder that even decay can be tempered, steeled, and aimed toward an uncertain dawn.