Carrion Flame Mace of Air

Carrion Flame Mace of Air rests on a sun-warmed table in the market's shadow, its head forged from bone-dark iron rings that encase a core of living ember. The mace's surface bears hammer marks, yet it feels oddly smooth to the palm, as if the weapon remembers the hands that once wielded it. A thin layer of soot clings to the knuckles, and every turn of its handle exhales a faint, dry heat that tastes like old ashes and hot wind. Sigils run along the shaft—cursive runes that ripple with pale blue glow—while the head glows with a sickly flame that seems to breathe whenever someone mentions air. The whole thing carries the scent of carrion, of something that lived fierce and died with a spark, and yet the flame refuses to gutter out, chasing the air in short gusts. In the lore, the Carrion Flame was not simply forged; it was tuned. A necromancer-sculptor bound a wisp of carrion flame to a wind-scarred mace, pairing death with breath. The idea was to trap a battle's turning moment inside a weapon that could coax a hurricane from a single strike. The Feathered Wind rune is whispered to be etched into its spine, a ghostly promise that the air will always find a path. When swung, the mace releases a surge of windward force, shoving foes aside enough to give an ally breath, a chance to regroup, or a window to step through. Gamers of the field know the Carrion Flame Mace of Air is not merely spectacle; it is a tool for skirmish and gridlock alike. Its light, slicing strikes cut through enemy lines, while a charged swing can scatter a dense group and interrupt healers mid-broadcast. The flame’s heat dulls fear, and the wind that follows can disrupt archers and spellcasters trying to weave a plan. In a world where timing matters, the mace teaches patience—the art of delivering impact at the right moment, then slipping away on a draft. Markets around the world carry such power in small, portable forms. A trader at Saddlebag Exchange once priced a Carrion Flame Mace of Air at roughly 3 gold and 60 silver — a sum that makes eyes gleam and narrow at once, as if the coins remembered a battlefield’s grit. Buyers haggle, coins clink, and the mace is tucked beneath a cloak, its ember glow dimmed to a careful glow, while the wind outside promises another day, another skirmish to win or lose. And thus it remains, a strange beacon in the market and the field: a weapon that looks like a relic of decay yet moves like a gust of destiny, guiding a story that endures beyond its wielder. Perhaps, then, the mace finds new hands when old loyalties crumble. The air answers its summons, and the ember grows brighter not from rage, but from purpose: to tilt the field toward those who listen, who keep faith with wind, flame, and the fallen. In that moment, everything shifts.