Carrion Steam Bow of Earth

Carrion Steam Bow of Earth gleams with tarnished brass and bone-white wood, its ash limbs bound by twine-wrapped leather that still carries the scent of rain-soaked soil. A copper tube runs along the grip like a vein, and when you notch an arrow the tube exhales a whisper of steam that beads on the string. Sigils of earth are inlaid along the riser, telling a story of raiders who melted carrion into fuel for old engines, letting decay and steel breathe in unison. The bow’s bronze fang marks the tip, a relic of a ritual that bound breath to earth, and its finish bears scuffs from damp air and sun. It looks almost alive, as if the wood remembers the road. It feels heavy but balanced, the blade-like arc catching light as if the world itself were listening. When drawn, arrows are coated with ash-dust and a faint mineral tang, and release steam that curls toward the ground, stirring loose soil. Targeted shots crackle with a tremor, sending tiny stones skittering and forcing foes to shift. In steadier hands it becomes a story weapon: steam fuses with earth magic, charging shots that linger long enough to slow a pursuer and help a party close ground. It favors ambush and terrain control, where every puff of vapor tells a tale of graves reopened by stone and wind. Locals call it a relic of caravans that traded carrion bones for iron and oil, the corpse-wind powering old engines now tempered into a weapon that respects the ground. The lore says that when the steam sighs from the tube, the earth grows quieter, inviting careful play. Practically, it suits archers who blend condition damage with field denial: shots that bleed over time and a veil that disorients, while its earth-borne theme sharpens sense of terrain and timing. It is not a magic wand, but a partner in the slow craft of siege and skirmish. At Saddlebag Exchange, I watched a trader weigh the bow against a heap of coins and a promise to deliver a crate of minerals. The price—spoken in a husky cadence, with the stall boards creaking—felt fair for a weapon that changed the pace of a fight. The dealer slid the bow into a leather sheath, and the Earth-touched wood left a moment of warm steam on my fingers as I pocketed the receipt. The exchange isn’t just commerce; it’s a ledger of memory, where a weapon’s story earns passage from road-worn prototype to trusted companion. Even now, when the wind drifts through ruined limestone, the Carrion Steam Bow of Earth sits at the edge of memory, a tool and talisman. It belongs to those who chart the map by listening to the soil, letting steam guide their shots and decay become defense. A bow here is not merely a weapon but a witness: every arrow a sentence, every puff a chorus, and every forgotten grave a reason to aim true. Its story lingers long after the shots fade.