Soft Focus Casing rests on the worn wood of the trader’s stall, a pale capsule of glassy resin that seems to catch the room’s oil lamp light and hold it, like a promise suspended in a bubble. The outer rim is brushed brass, etched with fine sigils that curl into themselves, as if the casing learned to read the language of patience. Inside, a milky core gathers and diffuses any glow that touches it, giving the impression of a small fog trapped in clear air. When you tilt it, the world through its surface softens—edges blur into watercolor, a feature some say was designed by lenswrights who believed memory itself should be filtered by tenderness. There’s a hint of parasol-petal sweetness in the scent of old resin and polished metal, the kind of smell that takes you back to quiet workshops and late-night experiments. Lore ties the Soft Focus Casing to the dream-lab folk who remember fragments of visions as if they were old letters. They spoke of a time when light could be coaxed into shape, arranged to reveal what the eye missed—a shard of truth tucked behind a veil. The casing, they claimed, was a vessel for those fragments, a portable memory-tuner that preserved probability in a glassy capsule. Hunters talking in hushed tones would tell you that a casing could be paired with a fragment crystal to stabilizes fleeting ideas—the kind that drift just beyond reach and vanish if you stare too hard. In the field, that is precisely how players think of it: not just a thing to hold, but a tool to steady perception, to let a moment of insight breathe long enough to become a plan. In practice, the Soft Focus Casing slides into crafting inventories with a soft, satisfying clack, and then the world seems to tilt a touch in your favor. It is a component in the work of artisans who bend light into practical magic—lenses for devices, optics for weapons, and delicate focus modules that reduce scatter in a chaotic shot. Some engineers use it to fashion a pocketed optic for a rifle or a skiff-mounted device, while mesmer artisans harness its glow to craft illusions that don’t shout a lie but polish a truth until it gleams just enough to be believed. It’s the kind of item that nudges a quest forward, not by raw power, but by giving a moment’s clarity when you most need it. Market days lend the casing an air of rumor and value. I watched a quiet exchange near the Saddlebag Exchange, where merchants compare stories as much as goods. The asking prices drift with mood and season, but you can expect a few gold for a clean, unengraved piece, more if sigils glow faintly and the glass holds a shimmer that hints at a sharper memory. Barter often breaks around a handful of sapphire shards or a rare dust, traded with the same care you’d give a fragile lie. The seller tells me the price can swing with demand, like a tide you can hear but not quite ride. By dusk, the Soft Focus Casing sits again on a threadbare cloth, its inner fog soft as a sigh, waiting for the next moment to make something honest about the world’s light.