Mini Avatar of Gluttony

Mini Avatar of Gluttony sits in a glass cloche on a vendor’s weathered wooden shelf, a miniature that seems to gulp the light itself. Its compact form is porcelain-dark at the edges, the body rounded like a coin purse filled with secrets, and the glaze a lacquered burgundy that catches candlelight in slow, hungry gleams. A tiny bib of gold filigree circles its neck, and a comically oversized mouth opens in a perpetual, puckering kiss—teeth tiny as pinpoints, the tongue a smear of glossy crimson. Tiny hands clutch a spoon and a dish, both overlarge for its frame, as if the creature can’t help but dream of feasts it will never finish. The texture feels cool and smooth at first, then slightly gritty where the glaze has pooled in the wrinkles of its chubby cheeks—the kind of artifact that seems to hum with a thousand whispered appetites. It isn’t merely cute; it radiates a tension, a reminder that appetite, like stories, can be beautiful and dangerous in the same breath. Lore whispers that this miniature is a miniature’s mirror of a much larger legend—the Avatar who feasts upon echoes, memories, and fleeting moments in the world’s long night. Locals tell of a gluttonous omen that prowled the margins of great feasts, stealing a bite of the world’s narratives and leaving behind a crumb of consequence. The Mini, then, is a crafted homage to that appetite—a relic fashioned by artisans who understood that to own a symbol of insatiable hunger is to carry a little piece of the world’s never-satisfied curiosity. When you cradle it between thumb and forefinger, you feel the old tale breathe in the glaze, a reminder that every meal of meaning is salted with consequence, even for things as small as a miniature. In practice, the item becomes more than a pretty prop. Minis in this world are social currency as much as cosmetic companions; they announce a player’s willingness to curate a story in miniature, to stage a scene in which appetite governs both feast and fate. The Mini Avatar of Gluttony sits on your shoulder in crowded markets and quiet inns alike, a tiny captain of appetite that draws curious glances from guildmates and strangers who read its pose as a dare: what would you collect, what would you chase, if you could savor the world in a single swallow? It doesn’t grant power or unlock new paths, but it does unlock a thread of storytelling—an invitation to weave more intimate, tactile narratives into otherwise brisk adventures. When you’re bargaining in earnest, the market hums around you. A friend points to Saddlebag Exchange, a place where prices drift with mood and demand. Today, listings ripple between a few gold to a dozen or more, depending on the season’s fever and the collector’s appetite. Seeing that, you imagine the next ride to a tavern where the Mini sits beside a mug of something dark and fragrant, a prop for a tale told aloud and shared with a chorus of approving nods. You pocket the thought, pressing the coin purse a little closer, knowing the item isn’t just a collectible—it’s a doorway to a broader feast of stories that keep the world turning, bite by glittering bite.