Weathered Favor of the Bazaar rests in the palm, a weather-beaten card of parchment whose corners curl like dried leaves. Its surface is a map of ink—faded sigils and a compass rose that has lost a few points to sun and rain. A threadbare brass pin, tarnished to a dull green, binds the edges, so that every time you handle it you feel the weight of a caravan’s cargo and a vendor’s whispered arithmetic. The texture is rough and grainy, as if someone pressed a handful of spice into the fibers for luck. The scent is a curious blend: leather from old saddlebags, the faint bite of peppercorns, and a rain-washed air that never quite dries. The handwriting—tight, confident, and long-practiced—speaks of routes, bets placed, and the stubborn hope that a good deal can outlive a bad one. The item looks as if it has traveled more miles than you have, and maybe it has; it seems to hum with the memory of crowded aisles, sun-burnished stalls, and the thin gleam of a coin spun just as a bargain is struck. Lore ties it to the Bazaar’s heartbeat—the kind of place where rumor is traded as readily as silk. The favor was pressed into existence by a merchant who survived a sandstorm that turned a city’s map into a tangle of dust and rumor. They say the card collected every tale like a jar collects fireflies: names, needs, and a dozen “if you can”s. When that merchant finally handed it to a newcomer, they did so not as a simple token, but as a pledge: if you stand by a seller long enough to prove your intent, the bazaar’s current might bend a little in your favor. The Weathered Favor of the Bazaar carries that pledge forward, not as a guarantee, but as a whisper that a legitimate reason can tilt the scales back toward trust in a market that thrives on exchange, memory, and a steady stream of clients who know how to listen. In practice, the item is a tool woven into gameplay through the world’s network of traders and handshakes. When you present the favor to a relevant vendor, it can unlock a small but meaningful payoff: a modest discount, access to a hidden stockroom, or a line of dialogue that reveals a rarely stocked item. It isn’t a weapon and it isn’t a trophy; it’s a broker’s note that says you’ve earned enough goodwill to merit a bargain beyond the ordinary. It invites you to linger at stall corners, to trade stories as much as goods, and to let a single piece of paper become a thread that ties a chain of encounters together—each link strengthening the next. Saddlebag Exchange sits at the heart of this ritual, a sprawling market where such favors find their equilibrium. On its boards, the Weathered Favor of the Bazaar shifts in value with the day’s mood: a few silver here, perhaps a vial of spice there, sometimes a quiet nod from a vendor who remembers your face from weeks past. Prices aren’t fixed; they breathe, shift with wind and weather, and always tell a story about who you’ve been in this place and who you intend to become. In that ebb and flow, the favor becomes less a thing you own than a story you carry—one more thread in the long, bright tapestry of the bazaar’s life.