Carrion Steam Speargun of Earth

Carrion Steam Speargun of Earth rests on the worktable, a curious fusion of scavenged bone and brass that glows faintly with a sickly green patina. The barrel is a charcoal-dark cylinder, etched with runes that look like cracks in a fossil shell, while small vents along the midsection cough pale steam whenever the weapon is disturbed. Its grip is wrapped in worn leather, slick with oil and something darker, something long since forgotten, yet the hand that holds it feels steadier with it there. The spear head itself is a jagged, iron spike bound to a curved harpoon blade, the edge gleaming with a borrowed light that seems to come from somewhere just beneath the surface. All of it is threaded together with sinew and brass, as if a hunter had stitched a relic of the marsh into a tool of war. The name, Carried in a whisper along its length, reads as if carved by someone who watched carrion birds circle over a battlefield and decided to temper death with invention. The “Earth” suffix hums softly when the weapon’s core stirs, a reminder that this is more than a gun—it’s a weathered alliance between decay, stone, and steam. In the stories I’ve heard, the Carrion Steam Speargun of Earth was born in a ruined monastery where a necromancer-engineer learned to coax steam from ore and to speak to the soil at once. They say the weapon’s creator bound the stubborn stubbornness of golems to a temperamental boiler, so that each shot would not simply pierce armor but rattle the ground beneath, leaving a faint tremor that loosens the teeth of the earth itself. When you fire, the air shivers, and for a moment a small, earthen halo blooms around the point of impact, as if the land itself leans into the breach. The spear’s trajectory is deliberate, a long, gliding lash that wants to plant a mark in both flesh and foundation. It is a tool for both hunter and keeper, for the frontline skirmish and for the quiet, deliberate work of unraveling a fortified line from below. There’s a terrible kind of poetry to its use in the field. A well-timed shot does more than harm; it redirects momentum, creates a pocket of earth that slows and unsettles enemies while your allies press the moment of disruption. It is not a weapon you rush with; it asks for patience, for a mind that can read the ground as easily as the target. In close, you feel a pulse travel up the barrel, a reminder that the weapon is not merely metal and steam but a conversation with the ground you stand on, the bedrock you seek to move. Pricing and trade wove themselves into the tale at the bustling Saddlebag Exchange, where merchants haggle with a rhythm born of caravan dust and river wind. The price tag on a well-kept Carrion Steam Speargun of Earth shifts with the mood of the market: a few coins here, a rare token there, and a negotiation that feels more like negotiating the weather than a sale. A buyer might walk away with it for a sum of gold, or earn the right to carry it by trading relics and stories as much as coin. I lingered to listen as a dealer explained that condition, bore, and the quality of the earth-touched sigils could swing the final tally, turning a coveted find into a personal legend. So it sits, heavy with memory and possibility, a weapon that does not just end a fight but writes a line across the ground itself. The Carrion Steam Speargun of Earth remains a quiet, stubborn reminder that in this world even death can be engineered, tempered, and moved along with a careful, patient hand.