Carrion Tribal Warhammer of Vision rests on the workbench like a fossilized storm: the head forged from pale bone, bound with blackened iron bands that bite into the light; glyphs coil along its flanks, glowing a sickly green when the air grows still. The grip is wrapped in worn leather, slick with oil and sweat, and the haft bears the marks of countless campaigns: dented rings, a rusted nail used as a lash, a thread of sinew tied beneath the guard. Lifted, it sits heavy and honest, balanced to tell a story with each swing. Locals say it was crafted for a caravan-priest who wandered between feasts of flesh and the desert's whispering dunes, carved with carrion motifs to remind the tribe that even death can carry a gaze. In the years since, the hammer has traveled with ragged bands of scavengers and seers, its blade echoing with secrets. The lore clings to it—visions, whispers, a way to pierce lies—without ever giving up its exact recipe to the unworthy. In battle, the weapon does more than bruise bone. It hums with a pale light, and its aura flares like a lantern left too near a tar pit. When the user steadies a blow, the air seems to tilt, and you glimpse what would otherwise remain hidden: tracks pressed into stone by long-dead feet, sigils etched by traders in a hurry, or the glimmer of a camouflaged sentinel. Such revelations turn skirmishes into small reckoning chapters, guiding the party toward traps, ambush sites, or the next caravan stop. In the hands of a patient player, the hammer becomes a compass—narrative and instrument braided into one. People who pursue the vision aspect carry the hammer longer journeys, because it ties the threads of the world: you hear rumors, test them against what the hammer reveals, and soon a quest arcs from rumor to route. Its use is less about raw damage and more about reading the map the world writes on your sleeve. At the Saddlebag Exchange, a well-worn stall that smells of leather and spice, the hammer drew a crowd. A trader unfurled a map, tracing routes with a calloused finger, and the room hushed as the price came into view: five gold and twenty silver, a sum many said would set a caravan on its next leg and buy a night’s rest in a safe camp. Yet the price was fluid: a buyer with a story—a vow to fare through a canyon of ash and wind—could bargain the tag down; a rival who whispered of forbidden secrets could push it higher. The exchange’s clacking scales seemed to measure not just metal but fate, and the Carrion Tribal Warhammer of Vision found a new owner only when the right tale was told. Sometimes you see the hammer in a sunrise caravan, strapped to a saddle as if it were alive, listening to the road. Its visions sketch a map in the mind, and the world keeps writing back—one step, one omen, one encounter.