Carrion Steam Trident of Bloodlust

Carrion Steam Trident of Bloodlust glints with a coppery patina, its shaft wrapped in cracked leather bound with ferrule rings that hiss faintly as steam escapes from micro-vents along the spine. The head is a three-pronged spear forged from darkened steel, the central tine sharpened to a keen edge, the outer prongs shaped like hooked ribs. A series of bone-white runes snakes around the blade, catching light in a way that makes the tattered cloth banners tied to the grip flutter even when there is no wind. When you lift it, the trident feels heavier than its length would suggest, a weight that settles into the wrist with a trade-worn familiarity. The scent is metallic, with a copper tang and something faintly medicinal, as if the weapon carries the memories of a battlefield long emptied of life. Lore whispers that it was hammered in the dripping anvil of a carrion-forge, where engines of bone and brass breathed steam that tasted of storms and spilled blood; a story tied to a caravan of plague-drivers who swore their blades could steal a foe’s courage as they bled. In use, the Carrion Steam Trident of Bloodlust is said to turn every strike into a small ceremony, every clash of steel a note in a larger chorus. Those who wield it speak of a slow, deliberate rhythm that invites the target’s defenses to lower, while the weapon’s own aura grows hungry with each skirmish. It seems to drink from the life around it, granting a hint of lifesteal to the wielder and sharpening resolve when foes bleed upon its blade. Across raids or tense ambushes in the overgrown ruins, the trident acts as a focal point for a narrative of sacrifice and balance: you trade a portion of your own vitality for a surge of power that pushes you into a closing move or a desperate reversal. It rewards proximity and timing, letting clever duelists chain bursts as the steam vents hiss a little louder with every successful hit. Prices drift like fog in bite-sized markets, and the Saddlebag Exchange is always a notch more watchful when the Bloodlust is in the room. I watched a trader weigh it in terms of gold coins and a handful of glittering salvaged trinkets, listening to whispers about how supply has tightened since a cache was split between caravans. The final offer landed around a couple of gold coins, with a few silver tucked in for good measure, a reminder that rarity carries a price and story. If you carry the carnal heat of Bloodlust into a convocation of enemies, the trident’s steam-warmed presence becomes more than a weapon—it becomes a character in the tale you tell with each swing, a reminder that even carrion can become something sharper, hotter, and more enduring when tempered by blood and belief. In the quiet after a skirmish, I hear the kettle hiss from its vents and know the world has just shifted a little. That is the language of Bloodlust.