Carrion Steam Brand of Earth

Carrion Steam Brand of Earth rests in my gloved palm, a dented bronze disc the size of a coin purse, its surface pocked with micro-craters like a partial moon. A veiny sigil of weathered iron traces a map across the metal, a green glow simmering beneath the patina. Tiny vents along the rim sigh out hot, mineral air; a wispy curl of carrion steam rides from a seam where the brass has bent, carrying the copper scent of rust and something half-remembered from old earth rituals. The texture is curious: cool to the touch at first, then warm as if the ground itself breathed through it; it feels heavy with memory, as if the stone had learned to speak and was choosing its listener. Legend has it the Brand was forged in a workshop where necromantic fervor brushed against the wilds of mineral veins, a marriage of carrion’s decay and earth’s stubborn resolve. They say the steam is not smoke but a small breath from the earth, a trace of the living soil trying to rise again. When the sigil glows, a hint of the underground pulse can be felt—a reminder that even the dead are not truly finished; they can be woken, if only you know the container to press. Gamewise, the Brand is less a weapon than a key. When slotted into the right harness, it amplifies earth-attuned spells, guiding mineral shards to answer your summons and granting a moment of stubborn resolve against flanking blows. It’s said the item can stabilize a fissure in rock when used during a siege, or coax a waning golem back to its sentry duty for a few precious seconds. In the wilds, it functions as a catalyst for crafting rare earth-infused trinkets, a component in ritual offerings, and a badge of status among traders who move between camps and ruins the way rivers move between valleys. People use it to barter with necromancers in old border towns, with smiths who still hammer in the damp air of caves where mineral springs bubble up like secrets. Earlier this week I wandered into the Saddlebag Exchange, the tent-lined marketplace where caravans stop to appraise oddities as if fortunes were cataloged in a ledger that never closes. A seller with soot under his nails quoted twelve silver and eight copper for a Brand of Earth, arguing it’s a cornerstone for any earth-weaving setup worth its salt. A buyer countered with a handful of bone shards and a promise to throw in a vial of spring-water from a geode. The price shifts as the market breathes: a good trade today might be another wanderer’s burden tomorrow; yet the Brand always seems to pulsing at the edge of a pocket, waiting for the right hand to turn the wheel. I pocket the item, its heat fading to a dull throb against my thumb. The road ahead is long, and the world's many ruins still whisper their old bargains. The Carrion Steam Brand of Earth hums softly, a small earthquake begging to be remembered.