The Wintersday Dagger Skin gleams like frost-blue glass, a blade etched with snowflake sigils that catch the light in a dozen tiny glints. The steel feels cooler to the touch than metal has any right to be, and the edge hums with a quiet, wintry sound when you swing it in a candlelit room. The hilt is wrapped in ruby-red leather, lacquered to a lacquer that never quite dries, with a narrow silver guard that curves like a crescent moon. A pale ribbon of frost wraps the pommel, a small bell sewn into the knot that chimes faintly when you step into a draft. The whole thing carries a quiet weight, as if winter itself were tempered into a weapon rather than merely worn. Legends say it was forged by a frost-smith who wandered between markets during the longest night, gifting the first Wintersday blades to messengers who carried warmth to the cold streets. The skin is said to remember footsteps—the sound of carolers crossing ice, the soft breath of a child at a window—so that each swing carries a memory of winter's generosity. It's less a tool and more a story carved in alloy, a reminder that even a blade can glow when kindness is shared with strangers who cannot spare a spark. On the battlefield, the skin glints with a pale light as enemies close in, but its powers are purely cosmetic: it changes the look of your dagger, giving you a streak of frost that trails behind every slash, a little snowfall that dusts the edge as you parry. Collectors prize it not for stats but for its narrative weight—a visible thread that ties a player to the season. It fits with outfits meant for crisp mornings and candlelit halls, turning any skirmish into a small theater where winter's tale unfolds with every strike. Players often pair it with gifts and seasonal garlands, clothing that carries the same motif, making a whole ensemble feel like a festival in motion rather than a battle. Markets in the city square feel more intimate around Wintersday, and the exchange tables at Saddlebag Exchange buzz with the whispered math of rarity. A dagger skin like this drifts between conversations, slipping from hand to hand as price fantasies rise and fall with the passing of the season. A seasoned trader might mention why a collector would pay more at the height of celebrations, when houses burn low and heart-felt offerings become currency, and another might argue for patience, waiting until last-night snowfalls silence the market into a gentle silver. Regardless of the price, the Wintersday Dagger Skin remains a token—an artifact that links a bustling festival to every quiet corridor a player walks afterward. By the time you cradle it at your waist, you’ve already stepped into the story: not just about a blade, but about a night when frost learned to speak, and a gift found its way into the hand that would wield it. Its glow lingers in the workshop long after the bells have faded.