Storm Lord's Throne sits at the edge of a sun-worn plaza, where caravans pause to haggle and banners stir in a breeze that feels electric. The chair-like seat is carved from obsidian that drinks the light, deep blue at its core and threaded with pale, ember-glow veins that look as if lightning itself has bled into the stone. Storm-silk cushions coil against the seat, ribbed with a soft chatter as you sit, and the back rises in a sweeping arc, a thunderhead frozen in wood. Along the crest are runic sigils that shimmer faintly when you lean in, like a storm eye briefly opening to listen. Lore says it was forged by the hands of a storm-lord, tempered to hear and shelter tempests. Some insist it was torn from a tempest’s heart and given to a ruler who learned to bargain with clouds. The stories circle the throne, a ring of memory that makes the air around it feel charged, as if the room itself remembers rain even when the sky is clear. Whether myth or memory, the piece carries a slow, inviting weight—something that urges watchers to speak softly and choose their words with care. In a room, the Storm Lord's Throne does more than sit there and look imposing. It turns a space into a stage for weather-made theater. Sit, and static hums through the air; stand, and the room settles into a hush of wind, banners rippling, candles wavering as if a gust had passed just outside the walls. It refocuses conversations around places of power and weathered authority, inviting players to improvise scenes of diplomacy under a cloudy mood. The throne becomes a centerpiece in a story that players tell together—of kings courting storms, of councils forged in rain, of alliances tested by thunder. For those who trade with careful eyes, the throne travels through markets, passe-mentière and all. Saddlebag Exchange is where much of its life unfolds; traders heft the weight of the piece, weighing its story as much as its price. Listings drift by like distant thunder, and buyers haggle over the right to claim a throne that seems to have captured a weather system in stone. Prices there shift with season and mood, sometimes settling around the gleam of gold, sometimes rising when a storm-saturated rumor wires the crowd. To own Storm Lord's Throne is to own a moment of weather made portable. It sits as a beacon in a hall, a reminder that power can be quiet, almost still, yet always listening for the next gust. In the end, the throne is a negotiation of atmosphere and memory—a tangible piece of how communities tell their storms, and how, when the thunder gathers, they gather with it. An apprentice vendor once said the throne listens more than it speaks, catching the pulse of the city as it steadies itself for the next rain. In that listening, it becomes less an object and more a shared memory. That memory keeps wanderers honest in the storms of life.