Ravaging Bandit Baton rests on a scarred wooden table, its shaft a dusky ebony that catches light with a subtle, weary gleam. The grip is wrapped in cracked leather, half peeled away at the edges, and the metal ferrule bears the patina of many nights spent in a belt pouch and a dozen skirmishes. The head is blunt yet purposeful, a steel disk that seems to drink in the air before it travels toward flesh, with rivets that glint like tiny suns in a torch-lit room. Carved vanishings of a bandit’s sigil run along the length—three crescent moons, a jagged bolt, a line of thieves’ script—faint now, but legible enough to tell a story to anyone who has tracked years of footfalls along dusky roads. The baton feels cool and heavy in the hand, the wood dense enough to leave a sting in a swing, the wrap giving just enough grip to let a determined fighter twist through a clash without losing balance. There’s a lore here, too: not a pristine weapon of glory, but a tool carried by those who’ve learned the road’s ruts, a symbol of the quick, messy justice dealt by people who move fast and vanish fast. In the world that orbited such relics, the Ravaging Bandit Baton does more than bludgeon; it embodies a practical art. It’s a close-quarters instrument, favorably paired with quick feints and tactile procs that reward a player who enjoys decisive, brutal exchanges. Its uses echo the itineraries of caravans and cutthroats alike: it can cap a chase by breaking a defender’s rhythm, it can drill a line of attackers with a persistent, knocking pressure that forces the foe to retreat, or, when the moment is right, it can convert a skirmish into a contained, surgical exchange. The baton’s presence in a loadout signals intent: you’re not waiting for the distance to close; you’re leaning into it, letting the rhythm of the swing dictate the scene, turning a street corner into a stage for a brisk, streetwise duel. Prices drift in the market like coins in a sack, and it’s at places like Saddlebag Exchange that the baton finds its next owner. A stallfleet trader can tell the story in a single glance: a tarnished label, a maker’s mark, a discount if a traveler is short on coin after a long ride, or a premium if the seller can spin a tale about a night-time raid and a narrow escape. The ledger sighs with every receipt, the road-worn stick moving from one believer to another as people barter stories along with steel. To hold the Ravaging Bandit Baton is to hold a memory—a memory of crossroads and surprises, of dusty boots and the soft echo of a punch that lands just right. When swung, it doesn’t just deal damage; it writes a line in the story of the road, a small but stubborn note about the people who live by risk, improvisation, and nerve. Its saga keeps echoing among travelers forever.