Stained Drape

Stained Drape sprawls across the vendor's table, a length of thick cloth marred by time and weather. Its color shifts with the light—deep burgundy where candle wax dried, almost black in the folds where smoke has pressed into the weave. The texture is paradoxical: heavy enough to hang with gravity, yet softened at the edges by countless hands that have tugged at it and left their marks. The frayed tassels twitch with every draft, and a faint scent of old leather, spilled wine, and dust clings to it like a memory. Across the fabric, a pattern of heraldry peeks out in a ghostly, almost erased script, as if some long-lost house tried to leave a final mark before it faded into the years. It is not a banner so much as a story worn threadbare, a secret someone hoped would survive a raid, a feast, and time. In the lore whispered by traders and historians, the Stained Drape is said to have hung in the hall of a noble who vanished one night when the stars went quiet. Some claim it absorbed the mood of its surroundings—the candlelight that danced through a crowded room, the cold breath of a guard, the tremor of a secret kept under a floorboard. Others insist the fabric carried a careful charm, a failed oath stitched into the lining that binds the piece to a clan and to a promise not yet kept. When players or wanderers unroll it in sunlight, the creases release a memory of old feasts and conspiracies, a reminder that every thread once carried weight beyond its color. For crafters and collectors, the Stained Drape is more than a relic; it is a doorway into a larger routine. Tailors prize it for the story it can tell when cut with intention—an outer cloak that carries a hint of courtly intrigue, or a lining that gives a dungeon-borne character a trace of nobility. In many towns it serves as a catalyst for quests: return it to a vanished house, or pair it with other relics to unlock a hidden wardrobe of transmogrified appearances. Players discover that the sheen on the drape shifts with lighting in the game world, making it especially desirable for those chasing a distinct silhouette on screen or a whispered history to share with companions around a campfire. And then there is the practical rhythm of the market, where every object finds a place. Among the stalls at Saddlebag Exchange, this cloth can travel for a price that reflects its age and aura—the sort of negotiation where patience and a willingness to listen to a dealer’s anecdotes can matter as much as the gold in your purse. A seasoned buyer might fetch a handful of gold to a larger sum as the drape’s patina deepens, while a hurried traveler might see it as smoke and fabric, worth far less. The value, like the relic itself, remains a conversation—one that continues to weave itself into the world, thread by thread. One afternoon, a seamstress traced the hem and whispered that the lining once held a vow to guard a hidden heir. She bought the Drape not only for its color but for the doorway it offered—one more thread to pull in their family legend. The crowd at Saddlebag Exchange nodded, recognizing how a single relic can turn hours into memory and memory into purpose.