Mordrem Hammer Skin sits in the palm of a blacksmith’s memory, a blade's friend wrapped in living timber. The head is tall and blunt, like a fallen tree section, its surface mottled with bark-gray grain and flecks of sap-green resin that catches the light. Vines coil along the haft, slender and deliberate, as if the weapon itself had learned to walk. The edges carry thorn-like whispers; when you tilt it, you can almost hear leaves rustle, a woodland sigh trapped in lacquer and lore. The skin’s glow isn’t harsh but organic, a soft emerald that deepens with companionship and courage, as if the Mordrem themselves had lent a sliver of their forest to your grip. In the lore threaded through tavern whispers and smithy fires, Mordrem are more than foes; they are gardeners gone feral, coaxing life to grow by strangling it with twining green. So a hammer skin named for them feels less like armor and more like a pledge—an oath etched into wood and resin that your swing is a promise to protect the vulnerable saplings of the world from creeping thorns. When you equip this skin, your hammer becomes a conduit for that pact: the head’s rings align with your rhythm, the vines seem to quiver in time with your stance, and the resin’s shine hints at sap that never stops moving, never stops listening. Gameplay-wise, the Mordrem Hammer Skin is cosmetic magic rather than mechanical, a visual omen more than a stat sheet. It changes the weapon’s silhouette, turning the blunt, practiced strike into a story beat—one that lands with the same force as a hammer blow but carries a whisper of forest memory. It is the sort of skin that makes you believe your character’s path has threads knotted into the world’s living green, that each swing might loosen a burr of old enchantment and reveal a hidden grove where new choices grow. The market hums with a different kind of life when that skin resurfaces. Traders drift in and out of Lions Arch like moths to lanterns, but the best deals show up in the Saddlebag Exchange, where collectors and crafters park their carts and paraphernalia, shuffling between stalls, bargaining with patience and a wink. I watched the price drift there, not with the panic of a rush, but with the quiet anticipation of someone who knows a skin’s tale will outlive a single season. A fellow hunter tucked away a small pile of emerald resin and traded it for coin; another offered a hefty bundle of glimmers and a remembered story, payable upon delivery. The Mordrem Hammer Skin, in that moment, was less a tool for battle and more a memory in the making—someone’s wayfinding beacon as they walk through a wood that may or may not remember them. So the hammer wears its skin like bark wears rain: resilient, a little wild, and eager to remind you that some victories are grown, not taken. Every swing is a line in the ongoing chronicle of the world, and that chronicle sometimes starts with a single, living, emerald grip.