Wool Scrap

Wool Scrap sits on the counter like a scrap of dawn escaped from a loom: a tired rectangle of pale cream fiber, frayed edges curling stubbornly, with tiny seeds and stray cotton husks pressed into its nap. The texture is a quiet contrast—soft as a lullaby when you rub it, yet with a rough twang at the fingertips where the shorter fibers catch and spring back. It carries a scent of sun-warmed wool and faint, soap-sweet oil from a benchtop cleaner; not enough to be strong, just enough to recall a morning in a workshop where carts rolled in from the fields and the air smelled of wool dust and fresh thread. In the light, the surface shimmers a touch, as if every strand holds a whisper of possible warmth. To hold it is to remember the patient patience of the hand that sheared, carded, and spun; a small relic of work that refuses to vanish into a single use. Lore has always tied these scraps to the old mills that dotted riverbanks and the camps where tailors stitched for caravans. Some say Wool Scrap carries the memory of the sheep that first wandered into a wind-swept valley, blessing the craft with soft, stubborn fibers. Others insist it bears a stitch of luck—the kind that makes a patchwork of fortune out of misfortune, turning thread and fiber into something useful again rather than turning ragged. In the markets, elders tell you that the scraps remember the seasons: summers sweating through the wool, winters freezing it into hard, sturdy fabric. A pocketful of these scraps would be enough to patch a worn cloak or line a glove, enough to keep a traveler warm on a damp dawn or a child safe from a chilly night. In practical terms, Wool Scrap is a common, dependable component for those who stitch, mend, and make do. It’s salvaged from a variety of cloth items—the remains of jackets, tents, and the occasional blanket—so it’s as much a product of care as of necessity. Crafters use it as a base in coarse cloth recipes, as filler for simple pouches and sacks, and as the first step toward more refined fabrics when patience and skill combine. It’s the bread-and-butter fiber of the shopfronts and itinerant tailors who keep gear from fraying in the rain. In a world where a good cloak can save you from a cold front or a broken leg, these humble scraps are the seeds from which warmth grows. Market chatter makes the piece sing. At Saddlebag Exchange, you’ll hear tell of Wool Scraps in steady demand, traded in bursts of copper and small silvers as people barter for materials that will become sleeves, hems, or blanket patches. Prices rise a notch when the harvest feels thin or a vendor needs quick stock for a flight-bound caravan, then fall again as fresh wool comes in from the hills. It’s not glamorous, perhaps, but it is dependable and human: a reminder that the world’s warmth, thread by thread, is built from countless tiny, unheralded scraps—each one a story waiting to be sewn back together.