The Grieving Consecrated Saryx Torch rests in the palm like a relic recovered from a burned chapel, its shaft a smooth, bone-black trunk wrapped in frayed linen and runed with silver threads that catch the light with a quiet, mournful glow. The wick, pale as ash, sits within a tiny brazier-crest carved from obsidian, and when you tilt it, a blue-tinted flame breathes out, wavering beneath a wreath of charcoal dust. The surface bears minute scratches—stories of hands that fed it, prayers that whispered around it—while the name itself, Grieving Consecrated Saryx, feels almost like a confession etched into the metal and bone. The whole thing carries a scent of smoke and rain, of long vigils held beneath cratered skies. It looks both ceremonial and practical, a tool for guiding you through stone corridors while bearing the weight of the sorrowful oath that consecrated it. In matters of the world, it is more than a pretty ornament. When carried, it lightens the darkness of caverns and ruins where torches gutter, reveals faint sigils hidden by time, and sometimes unlocks a buried mechanism with a gentle touch of its flame. Players speak of it as a beacon in nocturnal scouting, a way to pace a retreat with dignity, and a key to certain liturgical puzzles that require a flame attuned to memory rather than heat. The torch is said to grow warmer as you speak the names of the fallen, granting a morale-like shimmer to nearby allies in some events, though that effect is subtle, more a narrative cue than a constant buff. In the right hands it becomes a storyteller’s instrument: the flame darts toward a wall to reveal a glyph, or steadies a wanderer who has forgotten the way through the maze of catacombs. Its lore ties to the Saryx—an old order once tied to the sanctified margins of a ruin—where each torch was lit not to burn away the past but to keep it from being extinguished. Carry it, pass it on, remember. Like any relic that threads through the economy of memory, it travels through merchants and memory-laden hands, passing from trader to traveler at the Saddlebag Exchange, where the boards list prices with the same care given to grimoire margins. I watched a dusty ledger swap hands as the shopkeeper whispered that the Grieving Consecrated Saryx Torch had found a new ember in its glow, priced in the neighborhood of a few gold—enough to make a cautious spend, enough to make the curious smile and plan a vigil. The price fluctuates with rumor and the weight of story; a higher price for the keeper of a shrine, a lower one for a traveler who needs a beacon to finish a pilgrimage. The Exchange makes it feel less like a trophy and more like a chapter heading in a walking novel, a price tag for memory. It is not just metal and flame. It is a vow carried through the dark, a reminder that some losses are meant to be tended, not forgotten, and that light—even pale blue and shadowed—can carry a person home when the road grows quiet.