Shaman's Etched Artifact of Rage gleams on the merchant's cloth, a fist-sized oval of bone-white horn carved with jagged runes and set with a vein of coppery metal that catches the flame and throws back a warm glow. Its surface is rough in places, as if a storm's memory were pressed into the stone beneath the ivory glaze, while the edges bear a delicate filigree of etching that feels almost alive under the thumb. When you tilt it, the sigils flare a pale amber, and the room seems to lean toward the warmth the object exudes, as if the air itself remembers a ancient pact. Legends whisper that it was forged in a circle of river shamans who learned to bind rage—the primal fury of the wild—into a single, portable conduit. They say the artifact hums with a heartbeat that doesn’t belong to any one living thing, a chorus of thrums that quicken when danger looms and slow to a murmur when peace returns. Some tell of a battlefield where a lone shaman laid this relic upon the drum beside his totems, and rage swept through the ranks like a red wind, turning fear into a weapon and breath into steam. In play, the artifact behaves as if it carries with it a heartbeat you can ride. Those who wield it claim it unlocks a surge of adrenaline that fuels a different kind of rhythm—one that favors bold, rapid strikes and the piercing bite of certain skills that scale with intensity. It doesn’t lay out a single, unchanging spell, but rather threads through a build as a catalyst: it can sharpen crit opportunities, deepen impact during short windows of fury, and make area effects feel heavier, more decisive. Players speak of it as the hinge between patient preparation and tempest-driven action, a tool that makes a drumming hand feel steadier in the chaos. The marketplace in these stories is a living thing as well. A trader in the old harbor claims the Shaman’s Etched Artifact of Rage is a rare sight these days, and bargaining around the quay often hinges on who remembers the old legends and who simply wants power for the moment. It’s not unusual to hear a stall talk of Saddlebag Exchange as the place where such relics swap hands between travelers and guilds, the price drifting with rumors of a clan’s need or a caravan’s delay. A coin purse will sometimes tell the truth, sometimes not, but the vibe remains: this relic travels with the world, its story as much a trade as its value. When the artifact passes through a hand—whether in a quiet shrine, a sunlit street, or a cluttered trader’s stall—it binds itself to the next chapter of the land’s living history, a talisman for those who dare to ride the line between control and release. It remains a reminder that rage, left to grow, can be a force that reshapes more than a single fight. Its story lingers in the market, waiting for the next spark.