Carrion Steam Speargun of the Geomancer

Carrion Steam Speargun of the Geomancer rests on a sun-warmed rock at the edge of a ruined plaza, the brass barrel damp with a faint, industrial patina. Its length is elegant and dangerous, like a spear forged from memory: a slender tube of coppery metal, carved runes along the sides that glow a soft, vestigial green when the earth’s pulse quickens nearby. The stock is wrapped in cracked leather, stitched with copper thread, and a string of small carrion-bone beads dangles from the trigger guard, swaying with every desert breeze. A weathered plate, etched with a sigil that calls to a long-dead geomancer, anchors the grip to the weapon, as if the earth itself remembers who once coaxed power from stone. The muzzle wears a ring of dented brass and a vent that sighs when you tilt the gun toward the sun; when primed, a thin wisp of steam threads out and curls into the air like a ghost escaping a furnace. The texture is a paradox—smooth where it should bite, warm to the touch where the metal remembers heat, and the whole thing whispers of scavenged grace. The story tucked into its grooves is no faint rumor. The Geomancer who bound this relic did so not to conquer but to converse with the ground—a practitioner who learned to listen for the soft press of minerals and to coax that pressure into a controlled blast. Carrion, in this sense, is less a wound than a memory: a reminder that life persists in strange forms, even within machines that hiss and spit steam. The markings insist that the earth’s bones can be coaxed into motion, the old wounds of the land sealed with a careful click of metal against metal. Every dent in the barrel, every notch in the stock, seems to tell a small portion of that pact—the creaturely resilience inherent in both scavenged remains and the stubborn fire of invention. In the field, the Carrion Steam Speargun of the Geomancer is more than a weapon; it’s a compact narrative engine. Its shots ride a curling plume of steam that hisses like a contained storm, delivering precision strikes that can disrupt a shield wall or puncture a tight skirmish line. Used thoughtfully, it creates pockets of pressure in the enemy’s formation and exposes seams in terrain where the earth’s weight becomes a weapon itself. It rewards patience and placement: aim for the edge of a stone ramp, where a breeze will carry the heat a moment longer, and the steam bolt can bend trajectories around cover. For the scout, the engineer, or the geomancer-in-spirit among a ragtag crew, it’s a tool that turns the ground’s memory into a tactical advantage. Market days add another layer to its legend. At Saddlebag Exchange, where traders lay relics on rough boards under sunbaked awnings, the speargun sits among chipped maps and carry-all relics. The price tugs at nerves and memory alike—high enough to reflect its lore, low enough for a desperate bargain—depending on who swears the geomancer’s blessing still lingers in the runes and whether the bones on the trigger guard still sing when the valve is twisted just so. I watch the negotiation unfold, as the vendor’s fingers drum the patinaed barrel and the buyer tests the weight of time against the weight of a promise. And so the Carrion Steam Speargun of the Geomancer remains—a relic designed for distant precision and a world that refuses to forget its scavenged beginnings. Each shot writes a line in the ongoing conversation between earth and engine, a reminder that power, properly tuned, is merely memory made active.