Heavy Supply Bag sits on the rough wood counter, its weathered leather darkened where rain once dampened it and then dried into a stubborn patina. The canvas around the opening is braided with thick, waxed cord; brass eyelets glint along the seams; inside, the lining is stained with oil and the scent of dried herbs and salt. When you tilt it, the bag sighs with age, like a mule that has carried the world a mile too far. A faded crest, perhaps a merchant’s sigil or old caravan mark, is stamped into the leather near the mouth, barely legible through years of handling. Open it and you glimpse a curated jumble: rough leather scraps, coarse cloth, small spools of twine, nails and tinder, a pinch of salt, a vial of oil, and a handful of mixed crafting components—ore fragments, wood splinters, and leather hides. Sometimes a recipe scroll or a rare component slips in, offered by a forager who found the bag discarded by pirates on a storm-lashed coast. The contents are never guaranteed, but they feel practical: things a caravan would need on the road, things an adventurer can turn into gear. That is the bag’s heartbeat in the world: a portable kit of possibility. In play, it serves as a portable resource chest—loot from events, a stash to be opened at camp, or a windfall you trade with a friend for a skilled hand to turn it into weapons, armor, or armor polish. Crafters prize bags for the raw materials they carry, and market-savvy travelers treat the bag as an opportunity to barter, to gamble a little on what the next drop might contain. It is a reminder that supply and demand travel together, and every item has a story that ties it to a campfire, a siege, or a midnight repair session under starlight. In the market square, the Saddlebag Exchange sits where traders quietly bargain, weighing leather against coin and rumor. A heavy supply bag might fetch a clean handful of silver, or more depending on the season and the rumor of a shipment from the north. Sometimes a bag goes for a kiss of copper and a promise of future favors; other times a savvy dealer will pay in a cache of rare components that can spark a new workshop. The price, like the bag’s own contents, shifts with demand, with road conditions, with the weather of the world outside the stalls. On busy market days, rumors of a fresh shipment can tilt the scale before the coins are even counted. And so the Heavy Supply Bag remains more than a bundle of goods. It is a portable story, a node of exchange and craft, a reminder that even something so ordinary can carry a map of routes, loyalties, and hope from one dusk to the next. In a world where every trade is a thread, this bag knots those threads into relationships. Maybe that is why I still seek them in quiet markets: a Heavy Supply Bag is not cargo, but a compass toward the next road and bargain.