Carrion Embroidered Silk Insignia

The Carrion Embroidered Silk Insignia is a small, square badge of pale ivory silk, the fabric so fine it trembles at the lightest touch, yet holds a surprising stiffness that hints at careful craftsmanship. A raven-black thread sketches a lean carrion bird in mid-swoop, wings looping in a circular guard around a field of bone-white stitching, the pattern catching the glint of lamp flame as if the bird were about to take flight again. The edges are bound with inky thread, giving it a framed, almost sentry-like presence, while the reverse bears a stubborn patchwork of linen and resin that whispers of a dozen journeys pressed into a single keepsake. Its texture is a paradox—soft as a second skin yet resolute, like a memory pressed between pages that refuses to soften with time. Lore threads through it as easily as the silk threads through the needle. It is said to have been sewn by a wandering guild of caravan scouts, the so-called scavenger-artisans who turned misfortune into craft along the Deadeye routes. Some tell of a night caravan that held this insignia over its heart, believing the carrion bird would guide the living away from treacherous trails and quickly forgotten hazards. Others speak of a ritual cloth given to guards who survived a brutal moment in a ruined outpost, a token of memory rather than rank, a talisman meant to temper the fear of the road with the discipline of craft. In every whispered version, the insignia feels less like a badge and more like a living bookmark—one that marks where a journey began, and where it might turn again. In actual play, the insignia slides into the life of a traveler as a cosmetic emblem—an invitation to tell a broader story about where you’ve been and what you’ve carried. It’s not a stat, not a burst of power, but a piece of cloth that changes how others glimpse your silhouette on the road. Worn on a piece of armor or tucked into a strap of a trinket, it lends your character a weathered, wandering air—evidence that you’ve traded stories with markets beneath sun and rain, that you know the weight of a loaded saddle and the hush of a caravan at dusk. Collectors prize it for its quiet narrative heft, and for the way it pairs with other lore-soaked items to hint at routes and neighborhoods you’ve never fully explored. The market hums softly around artifacts such as this, and the Saddlebag Exchange is where you’ll often encounter it in person—an old stall lit by damp lanterns, a price tag that seems to shimmer between silver and copper as the merchant’s jaw tightens in calculation. A modest sum, perhaps a handful of silver, slips between fingers, and suddenly the insignia belongs to you, ready to bear the weight of a road-worn anecdote. It’s a small thing, really—a thread of cloth and story—but in Tyria, those threads knot together into the fabric of a life spent roaming from one campfire to the next, one memory to the next, until the insignia itself feels less like a relic and more like a compass.