Mothusi's Echoing Voice rests in your palm like a sun-warmed teardrop of green stone, a teardrop carved from jade with a trace of bone and brass clasp. The surface shimmers with a moth-wing iridescence, fine lines of seal-script etched along its length that catch the light and then scatter it in a thousand patient whispers. When you cradle it to your ear, a soft, wind-chimed hum threads through your thoughts, as if a distant storyteller were leaning in from the dunes. The locket's texture is cool and satin-smooth, yet under the fingertips you can feel minute ridges where ancient hands guided its shaping; the edges are worn from travel, the metal faintly dulled by time and desert grit. The lore tie is immediate: the relic is said to house the voice of Mothusi, a desert sage whose songs once stalled storms and braided rumors of a caravan's fate into a single melody. They say he pressed his own voice into the stone, binding it with sigils that only reveal themselves to the patient listener. In the world, the Echoing Voice is more than ornament—it is a key and a chorus. When you bring it into a shrine or a ruin where echoes cling to the walls, the voice can wake hidden glyphs, guiding your steps along a path that lacks footprints. In this sense its significance in gameplay feels like a map you can hear rather than a map you can see: you speak softly, and the relic answers with resonant hints that point toward safe routes, secret entrances, or a spectral ally ready to lend a moment’s shield. It isn’t a weapon, but it is a companion that tunes you to the place you’re in, offering brief protection from fear, a lullaby that steadies your nerve before a ledge gives way or the cliff-face coughs dust and wind. Some factions claim that the relic can synchronize with other echoes—ancient charms or rival relics—creating a shared chorus that unlocks a hidden chamber or reveals a long-lost inscription. Prices drift in the markets with rumor and mood, and that drift is as much a part of its story as the stone itself. If you wander into the Saddlebag Exchange after dusk, you’ll hear the hawkers trade legends as readily as metal. A silver or two can buy you passage to a nearby trinket of similar fame, but more often traders haggle with a handful of lumens and a tale about the temple where Mothusi once taught his listeners to hear more than they spoke. The value lies not only in the locket’s tone but in the invitation it gives you—to listen closely, to read the wind, and to add your saying to a long, patient chorus that outlasts any storm. And as you walk, the echo trains your ear to listen for strangers who carry their own laments; the voice reminds you that every treasure is a conversation waiting to happen, a mercy offered to those patient enough to hear today.