Carrion Flame Rifle of Corruption

The Carrion Flame Rifle of Corruption gleams with ember-light, its barrel mottled charcoal and rust, the stock carved from ashwood and etched with pale bone runes that catch the glow of dying embers. A ragged seam runs along the receiver, where scales of old leather have been stitched with copper thread, so the weapon feels almost alive when you cradle it. A faint, thrumming heat breathes from the muzzle, as if it stores the last heat of a funeral pyre, and a wisp of ash curls upward whenever you tilt the rifle toward the light. The engraving tells a story in mischief and ruin: carrion crows, a ring of corrupted sigils, and a small flame that never quite dies, anointing the weapon with a sense of mournful ferocity. Its texture is rough and purposeful—grip-slick from long nights in damp markets, yet firm as a promise, the kind of tool that has watched two wars end in a single breath and still asks for attention. In the field, the rifle does more than shoot. Its bite is tempered by a curse and a duty: each round carries a fragment of decay that can spread through a squad like autumn spores, turning ordinary skirmishes into a slow burn toward collapse. Players who favor precision and positioning find it rewarding: a well-placed shot can chain into a second, then a third, as the corruption crawls along the ground and licks at armor. Used thoughtfully, the weapon becomes a narrative thread—one that follows a party through ruined halls, where the living beg for mercy and the dead answer with flame. The flame itself isn’t merely cosmetic; it threads into the mechanics, amplifying conditions and drawing a line between destruction and defense, so a harboring necromancer can steady a defensive line while a marksman keeps pressure on a retreating foe. Market whispers thread into the encounter, too. I heard a trader recount a recent sale at Saddlebag Exchange, a quiet shop where like-minded scavengers gather; someone paid a tidy sum—roughly three gold, more or less depending on the day—for a specimen with a slightly different crest, and the rumor swelled through the alleyways that the Corruption’s aura might wane or flare with the moon. The price, the gossip insists, is rarely static there, shifting with who’s listening and what the season demands. Yet the rifle’s soul remains constant: a relic for those who remember that power, once awakened, wants to be used. When you cradle it, the Carrion Flame Rifle of Corruption feels less like a tool and more like a pact—a compact with ash and ash-dimmed flame, a reminder that ruin can be beautiful, and that in the right hands, a single shot can tilt a war toward a different ending. Some nights the rifle hums when the river fog draws in, as if breathing for forgotten dead. In raids, it rewards those who read a battlefield like a diary: shots, timing, and a willingness to let the flame finish what a spear cannot.