Storm's Eye Focus rests in the palm like a carved shard of stormglass, its core a swirling azure orb that breathes faint crackling light. The metal frame around it is etched with wind-silver sigils, the surface slick with a patina that hints at years spent in damp quays and storm-swept attics. When you tilt it, the eye seems to look back, as if a distant gale had learned to blink through glass. Runes along the rim catch the light in quick, almost pained flashes, and a soft hum crawls through the air when a spell is drawn near. It feels cool to the touch, like rain warmed by a hearth after a long day, and it carries the scent of ozone and old salt, as though a low-pressure front had lingered too long in a single room. Forged under a sky that refused to decide between calm and tempest, the Storm's Eye seems to carry a whisper of weather's will. Folklore says a storm spirit offered a bargain with a gifted smith: the power to bend gusts, to shield what you love, to guide a party through chaos, all bound within a single, patient focus. To hold it is to hold a memory of thunder—each crackle in the orb a story of ships steering through squalls, of lantern-light bending against wind-driven rain. In that sense, the focus is less a tool than a vow: to protect the fragile edge of a moment when wind and water threaten to swallow the fragile resolve of a group. In practice, the Storm's Eye Focus becomes a conduit for the battlefield’s weathered heartbeat. Wielders find it channels elemental energy with a rare economy—someone who knows how to listen can coax a quick shield to bloom around allies, a minor surge of arcane conductivity that knits back wounded momentum, and a controlled spark that punctuates a crowd-control moment with a brief, crisp flash. It feels tuned for cooperation: it rewards careful timing, alignment with teammates, and the habit of reading air currents as if they were a second language. Those who lean on it discover that the focus doesn’t shout to be seen; it hums, guiding hands to weave protection, to extend a corridor of calm through the roar of battle, and to offer a moment of clarity when panic clouds the map. Market lore enters the scene at a bustling harbor, where traders chalk up odds and stories as if they were voyages. A seasoned seller in the Saddlebag Exchange glances at the Storm's Eye Focus, weighing it not by coin alone but by probability—the likelihood that the next storm will sweep across the market and tilt demand. He mentions a price that shifts with the weather and with the talismans nearby, a reminder that rare things are as much about timing as they are about craft. Even a simple price tag becomes a weathered map, pointing you toward distant ports and the next buy, the next wind that could carry the focus into a stranger’s hands. And so the Storm's Eye Focus remains not merely an item, but a compass and a memory—an artifact that ties together craft, courage, and the quiet, patient protection that keeps a crew from being torn apart by the sky’s wrath. It is a reminder that power, when tempered by purpose, can anchor a moment amid the storm.