Carrion Aetherized Hammer

The Carrion Aetherized Hammer rests on a splintered pedestal, its head a dusky mosaic of bone-gray steel inlaid with veins of pale green glass, every strike-mark telling a patient, grim story. The face is broad and oval, chipped at the edges like sculpture weathered by salt and rain, yet sigils etched along its rim glow when the air grows cold. The handle is wrapped in tanned leather, now creased and cracking, with a subtle frost sheen along the grain that catches light with a quiet honesty. When you lift it, the weight settles in your palm as if the weapon understands your bones, not your bravado, and there is a faint, moth-soft whisper of aether threading through the grip, humming like a distant bellows. Legends whisper of a caravan of carrion adepts who tried to bind decay to order, carving the head from a relic bone fused with aetheric alloy in a workshop lit by fevered lanterns. They spoke of balance between rot and release, of a weapon that could coax life from the very edges of death. The inscription along the haft speaks a language that time nearly forgot, and the glow grows brighter as danger gathers. Some say the hammer remembers the people it met: a battalion of flag-bearers, a healer who patched a city’s wounds, a thief whose whisper could melt into shadows. The world, in turn, seems to respond to the hammer’s quiet demand for purpose, as if it has found a home among those who defend or desecrate in equal measure. In field use, the hammer shifts from ceremonial tomb to frontline tool with alarming ease. Its blows land with a rending crack that unsettles shields and rattles spears; the aether within pushes through armor, leaving a trace like frost on metal. For a group marching through a necropolis or a siege-torn outpost, the Carrion Aetherized Hammer becomes a focal point—a steadying force that gathers attention, drawing enemies toward a converging circle while allies rally behind the silence the weapon imposes. Its aura seems to pull at life a little, converting fear or fatigue into momentum, a reminder that power here is tethered to consequence, not conquest alone. Menu boards along the riverfront market whisper of a price, and the Saddlebag Exchange becomes the theater for this exchange of stories and silver. A well-preserved Carrion Aetherized Hammer might fetch around twenty-eight gold, give or take a few silver, for the glow and the leather still show a careful hand. A battered specimen? Half that. The price isn’t just metal and sigil; it’s history, rumor, and the chance to carry a piece of a balanced, dangerous bargain back into the light. Placed back on the pedestal, the hammer seems to breathe, awaiting the hands that will decide whether it will save or undo. In a world that pares away what it cannot bear, it remains a stubborn beacon, a relic that asks whether power can stay humane, even when the night is full of steppe winds and hollow drums.