Rage is a small, heart-red shard of tempered metal, its surface a slick blend of hammered copper and glassy enamel that gleams like fresh coals. Along the edge, a rune-scar runs in a delicate spiral, and the shard hums faintly when you cradle it, as if it remembers the bite of flame. The texture is a paradox—cool to the touch yet warm at the base, a lightweight weight that sits heavy in the palm. If you tilt it toward a lantern, the red deepens, and tiny motes of gold seem to drift within, as though the metal held a jar of sunset. lore whispers that it was forged in the heat of a long-ago siege, when smiths argued with rage itself, coaxing order from chaos by pressing fearsome energy into a single, sentient fragment. Some say the glyphs were pressed by a scribe who claimed the shard could hear soldiers’ breaths and remember every shout, every wound, every vow to endure. In the world where risk and reward walk the same streets, Rage refuses to be merely a collectible. It waits in a satchel, a pocket, or a greased inner lining until a touch of chaos summons it to life. When activated, the shard flares—not with a blaze that blinds, but with a steady, pulse-like heat that seems to synchronize with a wearer’s pulse. Then power pours forward: a surge that sharpens strikes, tears through defenses, and makes the air crackle with potential. It isn’t a weapon by itself, but a forge-light for whatever weapon or tactic you already carry. Used in the right moment, Rage turns a cautious engagement into a turning point, a quick skirmish into a tally of decisive moments. It rewards timing, not bravado, and rewards restraint as it rewards ferocity—a mirror of the battlefield’s truth: momentum matters more than brute force alone. The practical implications ripple through a party as well. Healers learn to ride the edge of rage’s window, tanks time their taunts to squeeze out a little extra duration of protection, and engineers find that Rage can synchronize with bursts of gadgetry, amplifying a field’s impact while a crowd of foes clatters in unison to a single thunderclap of opportunity. It becomes, in effect, a shared story—the moment a group learns to listen to the shard’s heartbeat and ride its rise rather than chase it blindly. Pricing, of course, has its own weather. In the bustling markets where caravans roll into town and traders haggle over copper and fables, a stall called Saddlebag Exchange offers Rage with a face-saving smile and a price that climbs and falls like a tide. A veteran negotiator will spin a tale about the shard’s origins, then drop the tag by a notch if your gaze lingers long enough on its glow. A newcomer can walk away lighter in coin but heavier in lore, carrying the rumor that Rage is not simply an item to be possessed but a memory to be shared. When you hold Rage, you don’t just carry a tool of power—you cradle a living shard of memory, a spark that binds you to a line of hands and stories stretching outward across the map, from market stalls to battlefields, from quiet camps to the heat of a forge.