Polysaturating Reverberating Infusion (Purple) glows with a soft, secret violet, a teardrop of glass that holds a restless prism of color. Hold it to the lamp and the liquid inside seems to breathe, sending tiny currents across the surface like faint fingerprints in twilight. The outer casing is cool and smooth, etched with interlocking runes that pulse in time with the hum at its heart. There’s a weight to it, a quiet gravity, as if the infusion is listening as much as it is shining. If you tilt it toward a candle, the purple swathes shimmer into spectrum, a miniature storm trapped in a bottle. Legends say it was spun from the echoes of distant bells and tempered by a guild of sound-smiths, who believed that every strike, every word spoken in battle, could be pressed into a tangible memory. Polysaturating, reverberating, and purple—the name itself seems to curl around the room like a held note. In the hands of a careful collector, it becomes more than ornament. When slotted into armor, the infusion doesn’t shout its power; it sings a patient resonance that threads through the wearer’s performance. The surface ripples in response to skill use, and with each notable moment—the dodge, the crit, the clutch heal—the purple aura flares just long enough to remind everyone in the room that the fight is listening. Its signature effect feels like a whispered contract: you trade a moment of clarity for a longer cadence of advantage. Allies feel the ripple too, a soft boost to endurance and a subtle sharpening of focus that helps downstream boons linger a touch longer. It isn’t flashy, but it is dependable, the kind of courtesy that teams rely on when the boss shifts phases and the room temperature drops a degree as the echo of an iron gauntlet rings out. The world where such an infusion earns its keep is a crowded bazaar of whispers and barter, where every gem and rune has a tale and every price carries a rumor. On the docks or in the back rooms of a trading post, the Polysaturating Reverberating Infusion (Purple) sits beside other harmonics, trade-worn and coveted. It’s the sort of item that players barter over not just for its glow but for what it implies about skill, timing, and the stories you carry back to your campfire. When the talk turns to price, I’ve watched a steady rhythm emerge: a cautious rise during festival weeks, a tempered dip when new stock drifts in from distant runners. Saddlebag Exchange becomes the heartbeat of that conversation, a ledger of what collectors are willing to wager for a chance to press play on a new echo. The chatter isn’t just about numbers; it’s about who has heard the purple in the wind and what memory it promises to anchor for the next raid, the next exploration, the next night under a violet sky. If you listen closely, the infusion isn’t merely equipment enchantment. It’s a quiet thread through the fabric of the world, a reminder that power, like sound, travels in waves, and sometimes the most enduring strength comes from what you hear after the hit lands and the echo lingers.