Carrion Steam Rifle of Bloodlust

Carrion Steam Rifle of Bloodlust rests on the wooden crate like a story waiting to be told. Its polished brass ribs catch the sun and toss back a warm glare, while the barrel wears bone-white inlays that glint with old sunken color. The stock is a scarred slab of weathered walnut, stained with oil and copper shavings, and the skein of steam piping along the receiver sighs when breathed upon. A small gauge glass fogs with each click of the hammer, and every dent in the metal seems to hum with memory: a weapon born from scavenged relics, assembled by an engineer who traded sleep for precision. On the side, a rune-touched crest—what locals swear is a memory of carrion birds circling a battlefield—gleams like a warning. When you bring it to shoulder, the weight sits differently, as if the rifle remembers the hands that once steadied it: those hands learned to listen to heat, to coax a bloom of crimson from its chamber. In battle, the Bloodlust does more than shoot; it whispers of blood-echoed bargains. One pull of the trigger releases a copper hiss, the shot punching through armor while the boiler coughs a red-tinged wisp of steam. Its blood-trigger rewards precise aiming with lifesteal, turning a clean hit into a tide of vitality and a momentary kinship with the fallen in the field. There’s lore behind that gleam, too. Some say the Carrion Steam Rifle of Bloodlust was forged in the shadow of a cursed monolith, under a sky always half-down, where scavengers traded relics for life. Others insist it was a gift from a delirious Engineer of the Black Citadel, meant to remind conquerors that every victory tastes like rust and memory. In practical terms, it thrives in close and mid-range skirmishes, pairing well with mobility and timing; a patient shooter can ride a heat peak to a momentum surge that can tilt a fight in an instant. In the crowded market days that trail caravans into the harbor, I watched a dealer haggle for a deal at Saddlebag Exchange, the shelves crowded with trinkets and half-forgotten prototypes. The chatter around prices drifted like steam—rumors of a high season for scavenged arms nudging the Rifle’s value into the mid-range golds. Patrons whispered about warrens of buyers and breathless contingents of tinkers who would pay more for a rumor than for a barrel. In that moment, the Bloodlust wasn’t merely a tool; it was a hinge on which a wider world could swing—toward bloodied victory or loss, depending on the grip that claimed it. If you listen closely, the Carrion Steam Rifle of Bloodlust is not just an instrument; it’s a witness, a talisman in a story written by scavengers, traders, and soldiers who learned to live with the scent of iron and the steam-sour breath of history.