The Seven Reapers Focus Skin gleams with a cold midnight lacquer, the shell a whisper of bone-white geometry wrapped in a lattice of ash-black metal. Its centerpiece is a slender spine that runs the length of the focus, like a fossilized rib, etched with runes that glow faintly pale blue when the world grows dark. The edges are sharp, polished to a glassy sheen, yet the surface remains tactile, almost bone-dry to the touch, with ridges that catch light in a way that makes the whole thing look as if it is breathing with every hour's breath. Legends tell of the Seven Reapers, not as persons but as a pact between seven shadowed hands who once ferried souls between dawn and dusk. This skin, some say, was forged from relics of their harvest, tempered in frost and oath-breakers' smoke. When worn, the focus seems to carry a whisper of those long-answered questions, a chill that travels from palm to temple, like a draft through a forgotten cathedral. In use, it remains cosmetic—no stat boons, no hidden buffs—yet the mood it lends is power enough. A Mesmer might shape illusions under a pale glare that reflects the reaper's vigil; a Necromancer feels the weight of the pact in the minimal drag of each cast, the momentary hush before the spell blooms. The skin's animation—tiny spectral figures skittering along the spine, the frost-surrounded glyphs yawning open—adds a layer of storytelling to combat, turning skirmishes into scenes from a whispered chronicle. Market days, I watch travelers barter for such things, a ritual as old as the city stalls. The price tag swings with the crowd's desire, sometimes a quiet handful of silver, sometimes a small windfall of gold, depending on who haggles and what stories they bring. Saddlebag Exchange becomes a kind of heartbeat for the skin's value: a posted listing appears, the bid and ask moving in sync with whispers from caravan routes and collector's demands. A vendor might tell you the exact same artifact exists across a river market, yet the skin changes its mood when it rests in a merchant's pouch, waiting for a buyer who sees its weight as more than metal. People talk about profit and provenance, and I listen, because the story behind the price is part of the piece itself. It is not merely a cosmetic; it is a token of remembered oaths, a fragment of the world’s darker lullabies. When I see the Seven Reapers glimmer as the night folds in, I hear the old clockwork of souls and the new chorus of wanderers who carry it forward, each one adding a line to the chronicle the skin has already begun to tell. Perhaps that is the true craft of a skin like this: to turn a moment into a memory you carry forward.