Ghostly Spineguard lies against the back like a whisper you can feel. A curved plate of pale bone, smooth as moonlit ivory, it catches light with a chilly, almost translucent sheen that seems to shimmer in the corner of your eye. Ridges run along its length, as if a spinal vertebrae had been sculpted into a single, elegant safeguard. The edges are etched with faint sigils that glow a soft, frost-blue when you’re near a source of lingering energy. Touch it and you’ll notice the texture is cool and slightly gritty, as if the artifact carries the dust of old corridors and long-forgotten vaults. In certain lights the spineguard looks almost alive, a pale soldier standing straight against the weight of the world. Lorekeepers tell a story of a sentinel who walked between worlds, a guardian who never asked for praise yet never forgot a single traveler who needed cover from the dark. They say the Ghostly Spineguard was forged from a fragment of that guardian’s own essence, pressed into a shield-like form and given to new keepers who would one day carry that duty onward. Its appearance alone would be enough to slow a quick purse-string, but the spineguard has a practical pulse that makes it more than a museum piece. Worn over the back, it distributes impact and helps dampen heavy blows from rear assaults, while the etched sigils pulse with a pale light when danger nears, nudging the wearer to steady breath and posture. In the field, it serves a dual purpose: it carries the weight of history and the weight of a fight. Adventurers speak of it as a companion that doesn’t shout for attention yet steadies the nerve when a scout’s mistake could tip the balance. In group excursions or fractals where the air turns sour with lingering relics, the spineguard’s glow acts like a quiet beacon, guiding the party’s attention to threats that would otherwise slip past the armor’s guard. In that sense it becomes part of a larger story—the way a single, carefully crafted piece can turn a wandering caravan into a moving chapter, a line of experienced fingers into a controlled, collective response. Pricing and trade weave into the tale as naturally as the steel whispers of a blade when drawn. I found the Ghostly Spineguard tucked between the stalls of a bustling market, where merchants traded rumors as freely as coins. The clerk at Saddlebag Exchange offered a price that felt fair for a relic with such history, but he also spoke of demand—how collectors chase the glow of its sigils as spring fields chase rain. After a brief haggling, the price settled in a range that left room for the next traveler to barter, a reminder that every item has value only when it travels between hands. The spineguard found a new owner that afternoon, but the story didn’t end there: it began again, riding on a back through a city’s turning gears, a quiet companion to those who choose to walk the road with memory at their shoulders.