Steam Mace rests on a sun-worn workshop table, the head a clockwork bloom of brass plates and copper rivets that catch the light and throw it back in stubborn gleams. A narrow vent near the haft sighs out wisps of steam as if the weapon still breathes from its forge-born burst of life. The grip is wrapped in worn leather, cool and slightly sticky with oil, the texture grainy and honest under the fingers. Along the spine a line of delicate engravings—gears interlaced with a hammer—tells a quiet story of tinkers who merged craft with courage. It looks like it was built for a siege, then tuned for a march, then kept by a survivor who learned to trust the weight of metal and steam alike. The Steam Mace carries a patina of battles fought in shadowed streets and well-lit workshops, a lore-making blend of soot and brass that seems to hum with a stubborn, almost human, patience. To hold it is to sense a certain promise: that the clash of steel might be tempered by a clever kind of engineering. In the hands of a seasoned fighter, its one-handed balance feels direct and unpretentious, a blunt instrument that answers with precision. The Steam Mace is more than a weapon; it’s a story about the world’s inventive spirit meeting its harsh realities. In battle, it lands solid, calculating blows that can break a line and shake the resolve of a stubborn foe. For guardians who favor a shield, or for warriors who like to keep one vigilant hand free, the mace’s weight becomes a steady rhythm on the frontline. And in moments of fatigue or hesitation, the old steam-sigh reminds the wielder that there’s more to power than raw force—the mace is a reminder that craft can bend even brutal moments toward purpose. Lore keeps a steady tempo with the weapon, too. In tavern whispers and workshop lore, the Steam Mace is said to be forged by a guild of tinkers who learned to listen to steam the way a smith learns to listen to heat. Some stories claim it was born from a siege when the city’s gears turned in concert with a sudden burst of cloud and thunder, a symbol that industry and resolve can march together. Whether those tales are true or tall, the mace stands as a tangible link between the city’s mechanical heart and the human courage that walks beside it. Market days add another thread to the weave. I’ve watched the Steam Mace traded with a patient arithmetic that belongs to caravans and markets rather than to battlefields alone. At Saddlebag Exchange, a stall-house that smells of oil and wax, the owner will weigh the brass against coins and trust, letting the price drift with supply and desire. On a good day the exchange will call it a valuable piece—worth a handful of silver or more—a tempting bargain for a tinkerer or a mercenary who wants the look as much as the heft. Other days it sits, a gleam of copper and steam, waiting for a buyer whose need for its story is as strong as their need for a solid strike. In the end, the Steam Mace is more than metal and steam. It’s a relic of a world where invention meets endurance, a weapon that feels as much a companion as a tool, and a reminder that in the right hands, even a brutal moment can be tempered by ingenuity and a little industrial poetry.