Rabid's Amulet of the Rabid

Rabid's Amulet of the Rabid sits on the cloth like a captured heartbeat: a teardrop pendant carved from pale bone lacquered in midnight gloss, the surface pitted as if nibbled by tiny predators. Its edges are scalloped, and the centerpiece is a carved wolf-head with amber eyes that catch the light and seem to blink when you speak too close. The chain is thin silver, braided so it catches every candle glow; along the inner rim a runic script threads in a language no scholar fully remembers. The pendant carries the scent of rain, iron, and something wilder, as if you could hear a chorus of distant wolves when you hold it to your ear. Lore says it was forged in the whispering days after a rabid pack eluded a caravan and a hunter sealed their last hunger within it, a bargain between hunger and hand. To wear it is to feel a quick, bright surge that latches onto your own pulse; the amulet seems to draw out a feral focus, sharpening senses and quickening reflexes. In skirmishes, veterans speak of its bite-like effect: not magic that bursts outward, but a hunger that makes every strike count, every dodge more precise, every breath a countdown to the next encounter. It is said to pair well with feral arts, frenzy skills, and conditions that scrap at armor. The more you push, the more the amulet gives—though it asks a price in return: a lingering ache in the jaw, a restlessness that keeps you awake in the moonrise, a reminder that power drawn from predation can feed on the wielder's peace. Market rumor threads through the lanes where traders hawk curiosities. I watched a buyer handle the amulet with reverence and caution, weighing history against desire, a careful shuffle of coins and favors. Saddlebag Exchange, that warren of caravans, keeps its own ledger of such relics; today a clean example drew glances and a bid that rattled the table, a price tag spoken in the language of gold. Vendors whispered that the amulet's rarity is as much about the oath it carries as the sheen it wears—only the bold dare claim it, and only the patient survive the first bite of its hunger. The amulet's role in quests is as storied as its edge: it steadies a hunter's nerves against nearing dread, but invites a hunter's instinct to override caution, turning routine hunts into near-sacred tasks. Those who trade for it tell stories of a path that winds into moonlit forests, where the Rabid's call grows louder and promises a reward for the one who can endure the gnawing truth that power always asks a price. Yet for those who carry Rabid's Amulet of the Rabid into the night, the world feels both sharper and thinner—a place where every choice bites back, and every ally, even a bargain at Saddlebag Exchange, must be weighed against the hunger within. Take heed, and tread softly, for stories of its bite travel fast tonight.