Linen Scrap

Linen Scrap is a pale rectangle of rough linen, its fibers coarse to the touch, edges frayed like weathered sails, the color a sun-warmed oatmeal with a few stubborn coffee-brown specks that tell of a storehouse’s dust and a long journey. It rests in the palm with a faint, lingering scent of oil and wool, the weave visible in coarse, honest threads that refuse to pretend they’re finer than they are. It feels almost like a memory pressed between two breaths—part fabric, part story, part the vertical sum of countless small repairs someone stitched into a single thread of daily life. In the markets and back alleys where tailors and caravaneers keep a ledger of every scrap worth its weight, the Linen Scrap carries a quiet lore of its own. It is not the proud roll of cloth found in the grand dye houses, but the stubborn remnant that keeps a coat dry in a sudden rain, a sail patched after a rough voyage, a child’s tunic mended under a flickering lamplight. You can picture a weaver’s apprentice folding these scraps neatly, promising the old loom another chance to sing. The lore isn’t loud, but it’s stubbornly persistent—the linen that survived a season’s worth of wear and tear, becoming a stepping-stone for something usable again. There’s a sense, too, of the guild’s careful economy in these fibers: a reminder that value in this world is earned through repair, reuse, and patient hands. Gameplay wise, Linen Scraps matter because they are the building blocks of seasonable craft and practical gear. Salvage a torn flag, an old work shirt, a trader’s bundle, and you’ll often find Linen Scraps tucked inside the pile, small heaps of potential waiting to be refined. Refined at the appropriate textile bench, Linen Scraps coalesce into Linen Cloth, a resource you can stitch into backpacks, satchels, or belts in certain tailoring recipes. They’re the kind of material that doesn’t dazzle with bright stats, but quietly underpins the world—supporting repairs on a worn boot on a hillside trek, or the seam that keeps a caravan saddle together after a rain-soaked crossing. The ritual of turning scrap into cloth echoes the world’s cadence: every expedition leaves behind relics that meaningful hands learn to repurpose, every repurposing a story continued. Market chatter threads the Linen Scrap into everyday life with a soft persistence. In the bustle of the Saddlebag Exchange, you’ll overhear a trader counting copper with a sly smile, noting how a stack of Linen Scraps fetches a few copper per piece but climbs when supply tightens and repairs surge after a storm. The price isn’t simply numbers; it’s a small acoustic of risk and diligence—the way a caravaner’s decision to mend vs. replace ripples through stalls and caravans. Someone will barter for a few scraps to finish a patchwork coat destined for a late-night market run; another will trade them for a ledger’s worth of maintenance, a quiet nod to the world’s invisible rails. So the Linen Scrap remains, unassuming yet essential: a thread in the fabric of daily life that binds the past to the present, a humble token that keeps people moving, stitching together journeys one careful repair at a time.