Viper's Abomination Torch sits in your gloved hand like a living thing, a slender shaft of dark wood lacquered in emerald and stitched with sinewy leather that gleams with a wrong kind of polish. Its head is crowned by a glass phial, bulbous and clear, containing a venom-green flame that hisses softly as if tasting the air. The glow crawls along the glass, pooling at the base where a coil of carved brass mimics a serpent’s belly scales, and the heat from the thing feels deliberate, almost patient, as if it has waited ages to illuminate a single shadow. To hold it is to feel a quiet weight—history pressed into a weaponized relic—and when you tilt it toward a creaking wall or a damp arch, the fire glows brighter, casting serpentine silhouettes that seem to slither into the past. Lore threads wind tight around the Abomination Torch. Locals tell of a temple lost beneath a river delta, where venom priests would bless a flame to bind a monstrosity known only as the Abomination—the kind of creature said to drink fear as others drink rain. The torch’s design, with its coiled metalwork and scales that coldly reflect candlelight, reads as a tribute to that ancient rite: a weaponized relic meant to coax truth from the dark, or to coax fear from a wary crowd. In tavern whispers, merchants swear the flame changes its hue when it’s near a venom-linked relic, as if the torch itself keeps the world honest about what hides in the cracks. Gameplay-wise, the Viper's Abomination Torch is more than a mood piece. It serves as a beacon in dim corridors, a tool that reveals offbeat paths and hidden runes that light up only when the venom-green flame licks against old sigils. It also feels like a companion to poison-focused builds: the torch’s presence seems to embolden blades and sigils that weave chaos and venom together, making afflicted enemies linger under the glow, while allies gain a sense of momentum in tight, venom-streaked engagements. It’s a torch that doesn’t just illuminate space; it invites players to listen for the whisper of a corridor that wasn’t there before, to notice traps and traps’ histories in the same breath. In a larger story, it’s a signal flare—part map, part legend—that says you’ve walked the edge of a world where venom and valor blur into one. On the market, the torch moves with a measured breath. Traders speak of it with reverence, and in a crowded hall near Saddlebag Exchange, a shopkeeper nudges the flame to life for a curious buyer, describing its value in terms of risk and discovery. The price, carefully weighed by a veteran clerk, lands somewhere in the realm of “a worthy investment for explorers,” and the deal lands with a quiet clink of coins and the soft rustle of leather pouches. The Saddlebag Exchange, with its sea of peculiar goods, becomes the perfect stage where a relic like this earns a new chapter—the moment a new owner steps into a cave whose darkness has learned to listen to the hiss of that venom-green ember. In the end, Viper's Abomination Torch is less a tool than a story kept warm. It is the breath between risk and reward, a flame that binds memory, peril, and possibility into one living glow.