Carrion Flame Pistol of Corruption

Carrion Flame Pistol of Corruption rests on the table, its brass frame scorched and pitted as if it had survived a furnace and a fever at once. The barrel gleams with a cruel, orange-green glow that crawls along the seam like a living spark, while the grip is wrapped in cracked leather that softens to the touch yet leaves a grit of old ash under the fingernails. Runic engravings thread along the slide and hammer, little sigils of carrion birds and withered petals that pulse when the weapon’s core stirs to life. When you lift it, the weapon feels both ancient and serpently alive, as if it remembers the hands that last coaxed it to fire and the voids those bullets carved through in the dark. Texture tells a story too. The metal is cold, almost indifferent, except for that creeping heat that answers the pulse of a nearby heartbeat. The leather grip wears the scent of rain and rust, and the engravings catch the light in a way that seems less metal and more a window into a fossilized memory—one that whispered of plague-haunted corridors, back-alley deals, and the slow, inexorable spread of corruption. Lorekeepers speak of a plague-smith who tempered this pistol in a kiln fed by embers from a battle between necromancers and scavengers, a weapon born out of rot and resilience, designed to pry open the shells of the fallen and lay bare their lingering essence. In the world’s rough-and-tumble calculus, the Carrion Flame has never been just a firearm. Its shots bite with necrotic vigor, seeding the air with a shimmer of corruption that lingers on armored skin and unseated nerves alike. In skilled hands, the pistol punctures defenses, spreading a mist of burning ash and subtle decay that makes enemies second-guess their footing and their courage. It doesn’t solve every problem with brute force; instead it threads a larger narrative through the fray—slipping into a story of stealth and choice, where a single, precise shot can tilt a skirmish, break a siege mindset, or force a retreat that preserves a caravan’s life and hope. Wielded alongside other condition trades, it becomes a piece of a larger strategy: control space, apply pressure, and let the field decide what comes next. Markets never sleep, and neither does the rumor mill that feeds the Saddlebag Exchange. On a crowded morning, a wooden stall creaks under the weight of wares, oils, and stories, and a trader named Jorun lifts the Carrion Flame Pistol of Corruption with a careful reverence. The price is never fixed, sliding between the chime of a few silver and the heavier note of a gold coin, depending on scarcity, repairs, and who vouches for the buyer’s intention. For the tellers of fate and fortune, it’s less about the cost than about the trust placed in a buyer who will walk a road where every shadow could hide another contract, and where a single pistol’s flame can light the way to a different ending. So the weapon remains more than iron and glassy glow. It’s a chapter in a roaming epic of rot and resilience, a tool that binds the bearer to a world where corruption is a tool to be mastered, not a fate to be endured.