Relic of Vampirism rests on a weathered saddlebag, a palm-sized amulet that looks as if it survived a dozen skirmishes and a hundred whispered bargains. The exterior is a matte obsidian disk set in a tarnished brass ring, carved with thorny sigils that catch the light in slow, feverish glints. A seam of ruby glass threads its center, like a thin vein of heat-pulsing blood, and the surface carries a whisper of texture—cool, granular, almost scabbed with age. When you tilt it, the metal answers with a faint, almost aching hum, not loud but intimate, as if listening for a heartbeat you might share. There is lore here beyond the shine: it is said to have been tempered in the shadow of long-forgotten covenants, its craft a negotiation with life itself, a relic torn from the rites of a cult that believed healing was only borrowed and never freely given. Some stories insist the vampiric energy within was sealed by a keeper who learned to measure time in breaths rather than hours, a balance of hunger and mercy that still hums in the artifact’s core. In the hands of a traveler, the Relic of Vampirism becomes more than a trinket; it is a quiet partner in the long chase through dusk-lit markets and dirt-streaked camps. Its glow awakens when danger nears, and with each strike that would take health away from an enemy, a fragment of that life bleeds into its bearer’s own vitality. Not as a reckless wild surge, but as a careful, patient drain that allows a fight to stretch longer than the hourglass would permit. Worn on a chain or pressed into a belt pouch, it tempts the wearer toward longer skirmishes, where endurance matters more than raw strength. The relic’s presence shifts encounters; foes learn to watch for a shimmer in your stance, a tell that your next breath may come from somewhere other than your own lungs. It is not a weapon that shouts its hunger, but a patient adviser whispering that sustenance can be earned from the very shadows you chase. Prices drift in the markets like heat over stone, and stories about trade drift with them. In the Saddlebag Exchange, a nimble trader will tell you that such a relic is worth a measured sum—coin, yes, but also favors traded with other caravans, tinctures, and old sigils. A buyer might part with several gold for the chance to borrow its quiet strength for a night’s march, while a wary seller will demand rarer proof of use—a logbook of battles, a mark of service in a siege, a name that travels well. The relic endures, a pocket-sized rumor that remembers every oath it has kept and every oath it has bent. And as long as the road remains long and the nights keep their long, patient cadence, the Relic of Vampirism will keep telling its story to anyone who will listen, one heartbeat at a time, until it finds its next willing keeper today.