Carrion Steamblade of Agony

Carrion Steamblade of Agony glints under the lamplight, a blade that seems to drink the air as much as it cleaves it. The metal is a tempered midnight, first smooth as glass, then suddenly broken by veins of copper that crawl along the edge like nerves awakened by pain. Its fuller runs with a pale, misty sheen, and when you tilt it just so, the surface catches a blue-green spark as if the steel stores a candle’s flame in its depths. The handle is wrapped in worn leather that has softened to the warmth of countless handprints, while the guard bears a carved sigil of spiraling smoke — a warning and a welcome in one breath. At the hilt’s base, a fragment of bone rests, polished by years of grip, a relic stitched into the weapon’s story. And then there is the steam: not a flourish but a steady breath escaping from the etched runes along the blade, little wisps that curl upward like a living thing, carrying with them a faint, coppery tang and the whisper of some ancient oath spoken by a broken city’s necromancers. Lore threads through the blade as surely as the steam threads through the air. Forged in a harbor ruined by fever and flame, the Carrion Steamblade of Agony is said to have learned the pain of its victims and turned it into a weapon’s resolve. Those who wield it speak of a pact, of a corridor opened between power and torment, where every strike sends a shiver through the ground and every clash reverberates with a chorus of past victims. The name itself—Carrion, a nod to its carrion-cold origins, and Agony, a promise of the weapon’s unending, curving pain—speaks to a philosophy: if you take blood’s heat into your own hands, you must carry the world’s ache within you. In the world where steel meets spellwork, the blade is more than ornament or boast. Its edge cuts not only flesh but fear, turning a skirmish into a ledger of who endures and who folds. In skilled hands, it channels that pale steam into a tight, breath-holding rhythm that punctures defenses and fans the flames of condition damage. Wielders find themselves able to push enemy momentum back with the quick, surgical tempo of each strike, staggering the stubborn and drawing out the fight’s darker tempo. It rewards restraint and timing as much as force, inviting a practiced rhythm: a first bite to stain the foe with agony’s heat, followed by a well-placed stroke that drains the breath from the room and sows lingering torment. Market chatter makes its way through the markets like a thread of rumor and gold. At Saddlebag Exchange, where traders weigh relics against risk, the Carrion Steamblade of Agony sits behind a cloud of coin and whispered barters. The price tag carries a heavy sigh, a number that would loosen a hunter’s purse and then tighten it again with the next negotiation. Some buyers speak of it as a prize for necromancer-support builds, others as a rare theater of dread for those who walk the edge between life’s grip and death’s courtesy. A deal here, a trade there, and the weapon shifts from stall to hand, from story to legend, each transfer another page in the blade’s growing, inexorable memory. Holding it, you feel the city’s pulse in your palm: a tremor of history, a spark of peril, and the quiet, stubborn hope that power pressed into pain might yet be tempered by courage. The Carrion Steamblade of Agony doesn’t just cut; it asks you to carry the world’s weight and choose what to do with it, one inevitable strike at a time.