Carrion Steam Staff of Bloodlust leans against the wall, a curious blend of craft and decay. Its shaft is a tangle of pitted iron bound with weathered bone rings, lacquered a dull crimson that stains the fingers when you handle it. A small vent near the base hisses softly, as if the weapon itself is drawing breath from some long-quiet thing. At the crown, a carved carrion skull cradles a glassy orb that glows with iron-red light, like ember trapped in a furnace. Steam escapes in pale wisps, curling into the air with a metallic scent of old wounds. The grip is wrapped in leather slick with oil, every notch and scratch telling a story of campaigns and healers who trusted the staff to guide them through danger. In its glow you glimpse a memory of plague pits and fevered nights, a lore connection that binds weapon to history. Folklore whispers the staff was forged by a renegade steam-smith who learned to siphon life from the dying and feed it into the living, a ritual cast in iron and ash that earned Bloodlust its name. Some say the skull wears old teeth; others insist it merely resembles the maw of a great creature waiting to be fed. In the field its purpose is plain: it channels blood magic, weaving life forces into a steady stream that sustains the wielder and punishes the weary. In a skirmish the staff hums, vents exhale pressure, and a necromancer’s circle tightens: each strike returns a fragment of vitality as health, and drained foes feed the next surge. The longer the fight lasts, the brighter the crimson glow. That hunger makes the staff more than a tool; it becomes a character in a larger drama that winds through plague towns, ruined estates, and caravan lanes. On patrols through a ruined market you hear traders whisper that Bloodlust is about balance—life bleeding from foes and feeding the wearer’s survival. Healers lean on it to stretch a frontline’s staying power; skirmishers exploit the steam’s breath to break a stalemate; and a lone necromancer might coax the world’s pulse to a controlled rhythm, turning a feeding frenzy into a measured exchange of vitality. In the right hands, the staff writes a quiet oath: protect, replenish, and endure, even when the world seems bent toward decay. Prices drift with the caravans, and the ledger-worn merchants of Saddlebag Exchange know well that rare items tug at a market’s conscience. I watched a stallholder unwrap the staff with careful reverence, exchanging glances with a buyer who offered coins and relics in equal measure. The tag, inked by a hand that had counted too many deaths, suggested a sum that rose and fell with rumor, with the night’s storm, with the next tale of a plague-born heirloom. Bloodlust travels by road and rumor, from the braziers of a plague pit to the quiet glow of a workshop, until the staff finally settles into a willing grip and the world feels a touch more dangerous—and hopeful—at the same time.