Carrion Steam Trident of Agony

Carrion Steam Trident of Agony rests on the table like a stillborn star, its three prongs gashed from blackened iron and lacquered in a film of oil that glints with a pale, whetted light. The shaft is wrapped in rough, salty leather that has seen more voyages than most captains, the cords frayed and stiff with age. Each prong bears a jagged edge, as if the weapon learned to bite from a furnace’s iron breath, and between the blades a lattice of copper coils glows faintly, humming softly whenever the trident’s hunger stirs. Steam hisses from minute vents along the joints, curling into the air as if the weapon itself were exhaling the remnants of some carrion-fed furnace. The head carries sigils—bone-white runes braided with ash-gray filigree—that seem to shift when you blink, like skeletal leaves stirred by a draft from a tomb. Its texture is a blend of cruel smoothness and stubborn grit: a chill that clings to the fingertips, a grip that smooths under pressure as if the weapon welcomes the grip of someone who has learned to listen to its cold whispers. Lore says this relic was forged in a kiln tended by the carrion priests of a nameless border town, a place where steam and decay walk hand in hand and the dead are kept breathing by careful contraption and careful blood. It is said the trident does not merely pierce armor but invites the wearer to speak in a language of agony—an ancient dialect that makes opponents hesitate, their muscles surrendering a fraction of will to the weapon’s own inherited hunger. When drawn, the Carrion Steam Trident of Agony seems to murmur in a sighing hiss, as though the sea of ash and steam itself remembers the hands that shaped it and the battles those hands could not forget. The weapon feels heavier with memory than with metal, as if each strike shakes loose a memory from a forgotten war, a reminder that power and rot are often two faces of the same coin. In the heat of combat, its significance unfolds like a slow prophecy. Wielding the trident, a player taps into streams of agony that cling to foes long after the initial hit, intensifying damage over time and sharpening the edge of every follow-up strike. Its artistry lies in the way it does not rush to dominate; instead, it bleeds the battlefield into a narrative—minions drawn to the scent of carrion, armor corroding under the slow pressure of persistent pain, and the wielder growing more precise as the world seems to answer with a chorus of ragged breaths. Encounters become stories of who can outlast the other—the weapon forcing patience, the user learning to read the room through steam and sighs. I found it once in a ruin where a vendor’s lamp bled through the cracks, and the warm glow drew lines toward Saddlebag Exchange, that market of wary bargains where gossip travels faster than filigree on a blade. The tag dangled in the air, a price wheel of gold and silver: a steep sum by any measure, yet not impossible for those who barter with a steady hand and a ready story. The clerk’s eyes glittered as I whispered about debt to memory and a night’s labor; the price softened, and I walked away with the Carrion Steam Trident of Agony tucked into the folds of my cloak, a partner in a longer tale of rot and resolve.