Soaring Torch Skin sits in my hand like a captured ember, a slender lantern wrapped in lacquered ebony wood. The flame it carries is not a mere orange glow but a living halo, rimmed with brass and speckled with ash-gold motes that drift when I tilt the torch. Along the shaft run delicate sigils—wind-swept lines that catch even a whisper of light and flare into a soft, birdlike shimmer. The texture is a dream of contrast: cool, polished grip beneath a skin that feels almost feather-light, with tiny fins along the cap that catch drafts and quake when the night grows thick. In the lore stitched into its edge, it is said to be a beacon once gifted to scouts who learned to ride the winds between cliffs and clouds. Usage in gameplay: When you equip this skin to any torch, the default glow is replaced by this soaring, luminescent pattern; you still light up your path, but now the lantern threads the air with a faint wind-song. It doesn't alter damage or protection, but it changes how you tell your story in the world—narrow alleys in Divinity's Reach, vendors' stalls in the Mists, all become stages for the skin to dance. It shines brightest in night markets and fog-shrouded ghats; players may notice and strike up conversations; achievements like 'Lantern of the Sky' might require you to parade through certain districts with it. For a caravan guard or a wandering minstrel, it marks distinction, a sign that you’ve earned a moment’s trust and a tale to tell after the maps are folded. Integrating price and market talk with Saddlebag Exchange: I found this skin tucked among oddities at Saddlebag Exchange, a waterfront stall where smugglers and story-hunters swap trinkets. The merchant eyed the glow and offered a price that felt fair but not reckless—three silver, perhaps a touch more if you bring a second item. We bargained; I traded a chipped compass and a faded map fragment, both relics from a storm-wracked voyage. By dusk the torch gleamed brighter than the lanterns on the pier, and the exchange's wooden boards creaked with whispers of other buyers chasing rarer skins. It’s a place where prices swing with stories: a rumor that a new lot from the winds would surge the value, or that a lull in travelers would push it lower. Back on the road, the Soaring Torch Skin feels less like a costume and more like a companion. It doesn’t demand allegiance or unlock fearsome power, yet it invites you to slow down and listen to the night’s adagio—the spray of rain on cobblestones, the muffled clank of a caravan wheel, the breath of a path just ahead. As you guide your steps, the flame above your head seems to sketch a line in the air—an invisible map traced by those who came before, who learned to travel by wind, to follow a light that chooses to rise rather than burn out. It travels with me, a quiet reminder that some lights are meant to rise.