Dragon's Weight rests quiet in the palm of a traveling trader, a disc of obsidian metal about the size of a closed fist. Its surface is cool and glassy, like a pool of midnight that has learned to hold its breath. Along the rim runs a delicate copper thread in the shape of a curling dragon, the lines catching lamplight and throwing back a warm, living glow. In the center a small, rough-cut crystal sits like a winter’s breath bottled under glass, its facets catching color from the room and returning it as a flicker of frozen fire. The metal bears a soft patina where years of handling have worn at the edges, and tiny pocks along the back tell of damp docks and crowded markets that once pressed the weight into eager palms. If you turn it over, the surface bears runes worn smooth by time, as if the stone had whispered a secret to every hand that touched it and demanded patience in return. In the stories carried by caravans and kept by old scribes, Dragon's Weight is never just a tool; it is a hinge—between memory and action, between rumor and deed. Some say it was forged from the last breath of a dragon, melted into iron so the chill of the sky would stay close to the ground. Others claim it was a weighing stone used by dragon-tamers to measure the spoils of a raid—the heft of gold, the weight of fear. Perhaps both are true, or perhaps the weight itself is a quiet ritual, turning whenever a dragon stirs in the distance, reminding the world that legend persists only when it is carried from mouth to ear to palm. Hold it, and you feel more responsibility than raw power; you sense that every exchange could tilt the tale in a different direction, that a single transfer can redraw the map of what’s possible. As a gameplay touch, Dragon's Weight behaves like a patient key rather than a discharge of force. Set it on the ceremonial balance nestled within a ruined shrine, and after a sigh of mechanism and dust, a hidden chest opens as if exhaling a long-kept secret. The weight does not crash the gate; it invites you to listen. Its value grows not from brute stats but from the stories you bring to it—your alliances, your quiet investigations, the stubborn merchants you persuade to share a line of lore in exchange for a coin or two. It becomes part of a broader journey, weaving through forgotten outposts, ledger pages weathered by rain, and the steady memory of veterans who insist the dragon’s memory must be weighed again, lest it drift away on a new wind. The market whispers of Saddlebag Exchange—where this artifact moves from hand to hand, with a trader’s calm negotiation and a buyer’s hopeful gaze. People speak of Dragon's Weight as if it were a living thing, trading in rumors as much as in metal. Its price softens on windy days and stiffens when dragon sightings ripple through the harbor towns; a single exchange, a practiced smile, and suddenly the weight feels heavier, or lighter, depending on what stories you walk away with. It’s not merely commerce; it’s a shared tether to a world that remembers, a world that weighs memory as surely as metal.