Carrion Steam Speargun of Agony

The Carrion Steam Speargun of Agony gleams with riveted brass and a glass cartridge humming with pale green vapors. Its barrel is etched with weeping runes, the stock worn smooth by discordant hands, as if the weapon itself has learned a thousand cautions and kept them. Cobwebbed grease slicks the exterior; tiny droplets glimmer like dew where the vents exhale a slow, medicinal fog. A strip of bone runs along the grip, carved into a thorned spiral that catches the light when the weapon yawns and sighs as you heft it. The scent of carrion, not entirely unpleasant, lingers in the crevices—the memory of plague wards and rain-washed alleys where such contraptions once swapped hands between scavengers and scholars. The Agony tag is not ornamental flair but a whisper of its temperament: when triggered, the steam surges forward in a brutal arc, as if the world itself were being pried open by a hot, iron breath. In the crowded stall, a merchant demonstrates the weapon with careful glances and a few practiced twists of the crank. The spearhead, a slender, merciless point, glints like frost on a blade of iron. The steam-cartridge puffs a soft sigh with every move, and the room fills with that peculiar sting—the mixture of soot, copper, and something almost medicinal. The phrase carved along the barrel, “For the ones who can listen to the noise of war,” seems less a motto and more a warning: this is a tool that demands its due in blood and boldness. In practice, its shots slice through light armor with unsettling ease, then release a cloud of vapors that scrapes away at momentum, bending skirmishes toward the moment when a foe is slowed, staggered, and suddenly vulnerable to a follow-up strike. It is not simply fire and frost; it is a patient weapon for a world that rewards timing, restraint, and a survivor’s willingness to ride the edge between heat and hush. For a scavenger, a hunter, or a street courier with a taste for noir memory, the Speargun of Agony becomes a character in the tale of a daily trek through ruin and renewal. Its earliest legends speak of a siege where steam and carrion fed the city’s fevered myths, of necromancers who learned to fuse rusted gear with living ash, turning scavenged relics into instruments of restraint and fear. In open firefights or tight corridors, its use is less about explosions and more about weaving a narrative of control—one carefully placed, smoky breath at a time. The weapon’s aura—both literal and spectral—invites a player to script a scene where danger is choreographed, where every shot sets the cadence for the next. On the Saddlebag Exchange, whispers circulate about prices and provenance. A few units drift between traders, their tags aging like leather in a sun-worn market. Some pockets offer the gun for around ten to twelve gold, others anchor higher, insisting on rarities or guaranteed maintenance. The chatter swirls: nimble negotiators slipping from stall to stall, pooling knowledge, sharing suspicions about fakes and salvaged parts. The Carrion Steam Speargun of Agony becomes more than loot; it is a shared story, a thread that winds through the city’s memory—portaling from hand to hand, resting briefly on a counter, then being carried toward the next horizon as the steam sighs and the carrion echoes.